Heart of Brass

Chapter Two

Chapter TwoI followed Mother in an uncommonly rapid stroll to the drawing room. All four of us stood in our most elegantly awkward poses. Jem tapped out a nervous rhythm on the left-hand section of his brass waistcoat until Arabella stamped on his foot, leaving a round imprint from her Superior-Inferior heel. She had a rare gift for communication.

While I had a moment, I slipped my portable hem-crank out of an inner pocket and adjusted my skirts so Mr Dawes would catch a tantalising glimpse of my wheels before I sat down. I remembered the way his brown eyes lit up when he spoke of Hungerford Bridge, and felt a flutter of anticipation. My heart responded to my nervous excitement by beating harder than ever.

Tick!

Mother quickly switched places with me so I was closer to the stopped clock. I opened the glass face and adjusted the hands to the correct time. Hopefully the Daweses wouldn’t stay too long and notice something amiss.

I was secretly proud that brass was a part of me, no matter how appalled Society would be if they knew. Apart from anything else, my artificial heart gave me instincts far more accurate than women’s intuition, and I had a good feeling about Mr Dawes.

Tick, tick.

Harry bowed at the door. ‘Mrs Dawes and Mr Dawes,’ he said, and I noticed he still had half a cast-off brass cog stuck to his trouser leg with grease. Perhaps no one else had seen it. I hoped not. Poor Harry was always trying and failing to tidy my laboratory. He still hadn’t given up hope that it was all merely some childhood phase. I tried to resist the urge to share my latest wondrous discoveries with him on a daily basis. Sometimes I even succeeded for a day or two.

Mrs Dawes progressed into the room with all the pomp of a galleon under sail. She exhibited all the creaking and huffing of a galleon too, not to mention the discolouring spatter of raindrops across her chest.

Mr Dawes met my eye and smiled. His patented self-doffing hat wound itself upward on a long spring before leaning sideways and then flipping neatly into his crooked arm. It was elegantly done, and gave me time to admire the moulded shape of his steel waistcoat between the cravated V of his frock coat. Now that he was in the room, I struggled to maintain my focus. For a moment I wished we weren’t chaperoned at all. Perhaps then I’d begin by telling him that his self-doffing hat had been invented in the basement of the very home in which he sat. I was struggling to conceal my excitement, and my heart wasn’t helping one bit.

Tick!

We all sat and folded our hands politely. Mother excused the children. I knew they’d listen from the next room, probably assisted by another of my brass devices. It was only fair: Arabella had to learn flirtation somehow. I wished I’d had an older sister to observe at our most vital work. It seemed far too important to be made up as I went along.

A foolish fantasy popped into my mind about wanting a more important destiny than marrying well and looking pretty. I dismissed it at once. Harry was right: experimentation and invention was no occupation for a lady. Impressing the right young man was what really mattered.

‘Tea?’ said Mother.

‘Delighted,’ said Mrs Dawes, eyeing her carefully. Perhaps she suspected Mother might spontaneously sprout petunias from her nose. I could think of three different ways to make that happen, but failed to think of a practical use. Pity.

Mother tugged the bell-cord to let our upper housemaid know her services were required. None of us were certain whether or not Mother had noticed the girl was now also our lower housemaid, and our cook. She gave no clear sign of having observed the change.

I rested my hands in my lap and left a space for Mrs Dawes to pick a topic of conversation that suited her. Instead she glared around the room without looking at me. She examined the porcelain figurines on the mantelpiece above the fire, then the genuine gold detail on the rose wallpaper, long since faded to brown. Her eyes rested above my head, and I knew she was examining the family portrait Mother had painted in oils the year before Father cut out and replaced my natural heart. I was Arabella’s age, showing barely a sign of womanhood. Jem was a pouting child, and Arabella wasn’t old enough to walk. Mother was slightly prettier than she should have been, and her blonde hair was a little smoother than real life would have it. She’d painted the entire portrait with all of us facing a mirror. As a result, it was very nearly truthful.

Mrs Dawes’s eyes narrowed, searching for some new morsel of gossip to share with the world. I kept my breath and heart steady, grateful I hadn’t sold the heavy gilt frame and replaced it with painted plaster—yet.

‘The weather is very fine,’ Mr Dawes attempted.

‘Yes,’ I said, trying very hard to think of something more inspiring. I failed, and blurted an honest comment instead. ‘It was rainy all this week.’

He stifled a smile. ‘Faithful British weather.’

I almost broke into a nervous laugh, but managed to keep my expression ladylike. ‘Indeed.’

‘Miss Muchamore, if I may be so bold?’

‘Please,’ I said, and saw his eyes brighten to reflect mine.

‘Our families are on good terms, terms likely to improve.’

Tick!

A jet of steam scalded my back as it exited the main safety valve between my shoulder blades, hissing loudly through the vent in my corset. Since I was seated close to the fireplace, the steam dissipated without causing comment. As long as I kept calm enough that no steam erupted from the secondary safety valve in my brass sternum, I’d be fine. Mrs Dawes was unlikely to appreciate the sight of her prospective daughter-in-law steaming violently from between the breasts.

‘Yes, Mr Dawes?’ I willed myself to keep my heart in check. ‘Do go on.’

Tick, tick.

He blushed, and took off his spectacles to polish them. ‘May we call one another by our first names?’

I didn’t answer right away. To my surprise, even Mrs Dawes looked quietly pleased at the prospect of greater intimacy between us. The upside of having a notorious gossip guess one’s family secrets was that she was unlikely to be believed. She didn’t even believe herself.

Tick, tick.

My family would be safe, Jem and Arabella would grow up and choose their future in the same circles we’d enjoyed all our lives. The crucial task of my life was as good as done—other than bearing children, naturally. That had to be easier than this.

‘Of course, Ambrose,’ I said at last, hardly daring to look at him.

‘Thank you, Emmeline.’ He stared at his hands, hiding his expression, but my heart told me our meeting was going very well indeed.

Once again the image of my laboratory lying neglected gave me the illusion of dissatisfaction with my future. I shook it off: my happiness was virtually complete. Marriage would be far more interesting than the clammy hole where I spent so many of my leisure hours inventing unique contraptions and changing the world around me with modifications to everything from fashion to vermin. Harry would soon be proved correct: it was merely a girlish phase. I was about to grow up and leave that illusion of real joy behind me.

Mary knocked and entered with the tea-things. Ambrose and I dared an exchange of smiles as she set out the tray and left us.

Tick, tick.

Mother passed a fine bone china mug to Mrs Dawes—we’d sold all but four, and I was desperately relieved we’d kept the right number for this essential meeting. My heart hadn’t betrayed me after all, and nor had our lack of funds. All our efforts at remaining part of society were about to pay off. My future was set in stone. Good British stone.

Tick, tick.

I was happy. Of course I was.

Clonk.

Oh. Oh no.

I took a careful breath and knew at once I was in dire need of help. That, and oxygen. I gasped for more air, knowing it was useless: the problem was inside me.

My mind sorted furiously through Father’s medical and bio-metallic notes. Supernatural intuition from the clever brass of my heart told me one of my arterial valves was broken. Fine, arterial valves were fixable. Except … except …

Not brass. I couldn’t use brass. Brass was good for sensory or intuitive magic and nothing else. Only silver bonded directly with organic matter. That was why several vital pieces of my heart were made of silver. But … we didn’t have a real silver spoon left in the house. Worst of all, I’d melted and sold all my most personal spare parts just last week. I’d had to find a way to buy a new dress for this very meeting.

Mrs Dawes was talking at me. I stared at her and didn’t hear a word. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember why she was in our home at such a time.

She stood up, still talking, and pointed her fat finger right at my chest. We’d all heard a clonking noise that was terribly improper. She demanded to know what it was.

Mrs Dawes wore a silver necklace. It called to me: one piece of silver to another.

‘Necklace,’ I said, very carefully. ‘Give me your necklace.’

Someone’s hand clutched my arm. It was Mother’s hand—pale, with long fingers and neat nails. She knew I’d broken something internally, and she understood what it meant for me and for all of us. I stared at her in mute terror for my life, and her blue eyes widened. Her hair was a halo.

My brass heart told me exactly what she saw when she looked at me: she was thrown back to the day when I was nine years old and she found me bloody and unconscious on Father’s underground workbench, with my original heart in a tray beside me. Father was so proud of what he’d achieved: England’s first true fusion of steam and humanity. A triumph for Britain and for science!

Her hand slipped from my arm as she passed out.

‘Necklace,’ I said again stupidly, and held out my hand to Mrs Dawes like a beggar. My fingers were blue. Just one minor valve failure under pressure, and our family hung on the brink of social ruin. Again.

If I didn’t get that necklace, I had less than an hour to live. My heart tried and failed to work.

Mrs Dawes took another step back, her hand at her throat. She stared at Mother but didn’t move to help her. I remembered that long-ago day when my heart was brand new, and Father and I both tried to explain to a pair of horrified policemen how wonderful it was—how beautiful a gift. It was my blood all over the floor that day, but no one listened to what I had to say. I was just a girl.

Ambrose stepped between his mother and I. ‘Emmeline, what is it? What’s wrong? Are you unwell?’

I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t possibly expose my family’s critical secret. Not after Mother bribed so many of London’s elite to cover up Father’s last days, both his actions and the law’s reaction. Instead I shook my head at Ambrose, willing him to understand. Perhaps he could somehow guess that my heart needed silver, and needed it at once. Perhaps one day he could understand that my heart wasn’t grotesque; it was engineering. Perhaps one day I’d tell him the whole story, when we were alone and he was in love with me.

His eyes clouded with confusion, and the link between us snapped. He took his mother’s arm and walked to the door.

I lunged for Mrs Dawes and caught the life-saving silver necklace in my fingers, keeping her from leaving. She screamed in pain and sudden fear. I yanked with all my strength, and her scream strangled into silence. The clasp snapped and I fell backward. My skirts tangled around my knees, setting my crinoline wheels awry and showing far too much of my legs. I’d have burned with shame if I wasn’t too busy trying to stay alive.

Running footsteps converged from all over the house—Henry, Mary, and my poor doomed brother and sister. I let the Daweses flee outside, and stumbled toward Father’s laboratory.

My laboratory.

As I hurtled downstairs into the stinking dark, I heard Mrs Dawes bellowing at the top of her voice on our front step: ‘Murderers. They’re all murderers. Help, police! Somebody call the police!’