The Inventors Wife
An eRedSage Publishing Publication
This book is a work of complete fiction. Any names, places, incidents, characters are products of the author’s imagination and creativity or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is fully coincidental.
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The Inventor’s Wife
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ISBN: 9781603100618; 160310061X The Inventor’s Wife eBook version
Published by arrangement with the authors and copyright holders of the individual works as follows:
The Inventor’s Wife © 2016 by Heather Massey
Cover © 2016 by Lyn
Printed in the U.S.A.
ebook layout and conversion by jimandzetta.com
The Inventor’s Wife
***
By Heather Massey
TO MY READERS:
Thanks so very much for your interest in The Inventor's Wife!
READER ALERT!:
Lock the doors and loosen your drawers because you're about to experience an erotic adventure in forbidden romance, kinky clockwork sex toys, and a delightfully dark twist on the Happily Ever After.
Chapter One
Worcester, Massachusetts, 1840
A buzzing, insistent fly hovered near Elena’s cheek as she drew the outline of a gear in the dirt. She ignored the pest, her thoughts humming with purpose and absolute concentration. Nearby, her open Bible lay on a slab of rock. She’d abandoned it some thirty minutes earlier, the thick tome only for show.
Beneath a clear summer sky, she knelt on a section of dandelion-spotted grass. Her thin stick made a scritch sound as she angled it back and forth to achieve just the right design. The dirt patch by the stone wall at the property’s rear border provided a perfect canvas, not to mention a modicum of privacy.
She surveyed the rough blueprint of her impromptu design with immense satisfaction. If produced, it would become a chess-playing automaton. She pushed back a strand of sweat-dampened hair. If only she could take the automaton on a grand tour! Crowds of onlookers would be entranced as her creation challenged mighty people such as kings, generals and tsars.
Then her dream vanished in a puff of imaginary smoke. She would never have the opportunity to build such a device. No one would ever take a woman with that kind of dream seriously. Everyone and his brother would probably think her a prime candidate for a lunatic asylum.
Elena frowned. She couldn’t help the way her mind worked, or her affinity for anything to do with metal and machinery. Though metallic items were difficult to come by for one so sheltered, she had managed to amass a sizeable collection during the course of her nineteen years. It included various clockwork parts, stray pieces of iron and brass, some tools, rivets, gears and even a finial with an eagle on top. Most of the collection stayed tucked away in her bedroom, concealed in hiding places known only to her. Her widowed father suspected nothing, and she aimed to keep it that way.
Occasionally, she’d sit by the bedroom window in her favorite walnut armchair, legs tucked beneath her on the gold damask cushion. With a handful of parts on her lap, she’d study them by sunlight, sometimes for hours at a time. Whether the object was smooth or rough, polished or tarnished, she relished each and every one. Frequently, the metallic odor leeched into her skin, yet she preferred to savor it than wash it away.
She drifted more deeply into a daydream. If only she could use her collection to build something. Perhaps a pair of clockwork wings, then I could fly far away.
Footsteps approached, startling her from her thoughts. Please let it be a servant.
“Elena?” called a sonorous male voice.
No such luck—her father. Breaking out in a chilly sweat, she hastily scratched out the drawing. God forbid he discover her hobby.
Skirts swishing, she stood on the bald patch and turned to face him. A bead of perspiration slipped from her bonnet and rolled down her temple, but the warm summer day couldn’t be blamed as the sole culprit. “Yes, Father?”
“What are you doing?” Lawrence Harrington crossed his arms and cast a pointed look toward the stick in her hand.
She nodded at the Bible. A breeze ruffled the pages. “I was copying one of the pictures.”
Harrington cocked a dark brow. Suspicion lined his tight smile. “Show me.”
She shook her head while erasing the remainder of the sketch with her shoe. “It was rather abysmal.”
Her father pursed his lips while pulling a gold watch from the pocket of his burgundy waistcoat. “It’s time. Brush off your skirts and come with me.”
She bit back a groan, but dropped the stick and complied with his request. “Time for what?”
“I’ve arranged for a demonstration of some new equipment for the garden. Do you not recall my telling you over breakfast?”
She looked askance. Her father had mentioned something about a visit during breakfast, but she’d tuned him out. “Ahh….”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “When I speak, I expect you to listen.”
She studied the ground. When you have something interesting to say, perhaps I will pay more attention. She’d tired long ago of playing the role of her mother’s substitute. Her father had been widowed a year now, but Elena very much doubted he suffered the loss nearly as much as she did.
“You are going to help represent the family at the unveiling. Mr. Washburn will be among our visitors, so you can dazzle him with your sparkling personality while the refreshments are served.”
Though his words evoked a cheery scene, the expression on his face painted a calculated one. Some might consider him classically handsome, with an eagle’s bearing, but she knew the truth—the man was nothing more than a power-hungry vulture.
Elena clenched a fist among the folds of her skirt. Not him again. Ichabod Washburn had gained a reputation as the “Barbed Baron” for his innovative development of steel wires. He might have been intelligent and supremely wealthy, but he was an arrogant man whose breath always smelled like rank fish. Even worse, shortly after she’d turned nineteen, her father had been actively encouraging Washburn to court her. Her expression soured before she could stop it.
“Wipe that frown off your face at once. It is past time you mastered the art of high society decorum.” With a curt gesture, Harrington indicated for her to follow him.
As he led her across the verdant lawn, resentment flared with volcanic intensity. She plodded along, wondering at how quickly she and her father had become so distant. Other than blood, since her mother’s death, they had nothing in common anymore. At that moment, she struggled to recall if they’d ever shared even a single true interest.
A man of vision—or so he liked to describe himself—Lawrence Harrington spearheaded myriad innovative business ventures and was involved in the creation of a dozen or so more. With an enormous amount of capital at his disposal, he had invested in a number of promising industrial projects. His latest fancy pertained to the development of a railway between Worcester and Providence, Rhode Island. If that project succeeded, her father’s distribution empire would expand by leaps and bounds.
As an affluent member of Worcester’s urban aristocracy, he frequently traveled to hobnob with political figures, business owners and masters of the mechanical arts. Whe
n at home, he spent most of his time in his opulent study, either penning correspondences or hosting meetings with his various business partners.
Elena detested the idea of being a pawn in his grand scheme. A marriage to Washburn would suit her father and his business aspirations far more than she. Unfortunately, she had no means of escape.
Knowing her father’s style, this inane gathering would be as exciting as watching a tree grow. She delivered a brief, searing glare to her father’s back. How could he be so heartless?
Harrington angled sharply left. Their stately Salisbury Street mansion loomed on Elena’s right as she followed her father toward the vast garden. She contemplated a ruse—perhaps a stomachache—to escape the coming drudgery, but quickly discarded the idea. Her father was no fool and neither did he suffer the abdication of duty.
They arrived at the site of the demonstration. The garden entrance was a large, ostentatious affair. Lawrence Harrington had spared no expense in its creation. An intricate wrought iron arch bearing the word “Paradiso” stretched between two soaring marble columns, both of which had been carved into angels. Their robed arms and soaring wings stretched out in welcome, drawing the visitor’s gaze to the lush land beyond.
Inside, the garden boasted dozens of stone benches, three ponds, a maze, sculpted shrubbery, several secluded groves fit for lovers, terraced steps and trellis-lined walkways. Birds flitted among the copses of river birch and evergreen trees. A majestic corkscrew willow tree reigned over all at the garden’s center.
Flowers bloomed everywhere, an explosion of color and scents. Roses, of course, with hues ranging from pristine white to a deep blood-red. Lily of the Valley, tulips, zinnias, Queen Anne’s Lace, delphiniums—those types and more had been planted in creative arrangements designed to inspire awe and seduce the senses.
Elena sighed quietly. With a garden this vibrant and beautiful, why did she feel so dead inside?
A group of men dressed in dark, somber coats milled about the serving tables topped by a deluxe white canopy. They drank claret cup, nibbled on assorted sweets and engaged in diligent conversation. These were the movers and shakers of Worcester’s industry and culture.
She drifted like a wraith about the edge of the gathering. She hardly fit in with her father’s preferred “family.” He’d attempted to teach her about his business, but the sessions had gone disastrously. Not because she had a lazy disposition or lacked a head for numbers. She’d simply rather work diligently at another occupation—such as designing and building clockwork devices.
She glanced around to note who her father had invited. She recognized loom innovator William Crompton, Loring “Prince of Knives” Coes, and Stephen Salisbury II, founder of the Court Mills factory. Or—as she had privately dubbed them—Humdrum, Tedious and Boring. Was this web of lackluster living to be her fate? She barely suppressed a yawn behind her white gloves.
Her father appeared deep in conversation, drawing the attention of his guests like a flame drew moths. Elena tapped her foot. When would this demonstration of his ever begin? Knowing the company he kept, the men would probably congregate here for hours before anything interesting would happen.
She retreated to the shade of the canopy. Mr. Adler, one of the footmen, brought her a glass of lemonade on a silver tray. She accepted the glass with a murmur of thanks. Fragrant lemon slices and mint sprigs accented the drink. The cool, tart liquid quenched her thirst, but that proved the extent of its powers. It certainly could not prevent Ichabod Washburn from heading straight toward her. The hungry anticipation on his face spoke plainly.
She shuddered with disgust. Her father must have alerted him to her presence. The warm air would make his breath a hundred times worse. And how many times would he impulsively touch her elbow on this particular visit? She wiped a bead of perspiration from her forehead. Only a miracle would save her now.
A tremendous roar broke through the air. Birds squawked in alarm. Goblets fell to the grass. The startled guests jostled about as their jaws slackened. Mr. Washburn halted mid-stride and spun around.
Her lemonade forgotten, Elena searched for the source of the disruption. It was definitely mechanical in nature. But what could it be? Despite her apathy, she deposited her glass on a nearby table and advanced a few steps forward.
Her father remained calm. Smiling, he stood before the gate.
“Come and gather round,” he called out. He gestured to the garden entrance with a flourish.
Rumbling along the main garden path, a massive machine rolled into view. The giant device towered over them all. Elena estimated it must be at least one story high. Its powerful boiler chugged loudly. Steam hissed from a number of vents. Her heart skipped a beat. What manner of device was this?
Gardening tools and instruments stuck out from the machine at all angles—an iron pincushion of extraordinary proportions. She spotted hedging shears, scythes, spades, billhooks, pruning saws, edgers, grubbers, hoes and more. Everything required to maintain a garden of this scale dominated the machine’s design.
But the most wondrous aspect was the automaton centerpiece. Was it a type of driver? Only the upper torso lay visible. The face had vertical slits for eyes, a nub of metal for a nose, and a horizontal slit for a mouth. A wide-brimmed straw hat perched jauntily on its head.
Overall, the device had the bizarre appearance of an iron man with the lower extremities of a mechanical spider. The automaton’s “arms” each sprouted an array of yet more gardening tools. Just before the garden entrance, the mammoth contraption rumbled to a stop.
The men around her began speaking at once. Exclamations of surprise mixed with their questions about the mechanical wonder in their presence. Elena’s lip curled upwards. Perhaps the machine would shed a few gears or rods she could acquire for her collection. Her breath quickened. Might it offer a grand adventure or two? She quelled a wild desire to leap up behind the automaton and ride it all over Worcester.
Or even just around the property. Clearly, her father had commissioned this device to maintain their vast garden. The sight left her trembling, but not from fear. She’d never seen anything like it. But such an invention didn’t arise from nowhere. Who could be the mastermind behind its construction?
That’s when she noticed a newcomer approaching her father. The brown-suited stranger was tall, lean and clean-shaven. Wheat-colored hair framed his handsome face. He stood out among her father’s colleagues like a wolf in a den of foxes. She couldn’t look away. Was he the inventor of this device?
He shook hands with her father. Harrington clapped a palm upon the man’s shoulder while facing the assembled men. “Gentlemen, I am most pleased to introduce Daniel J. Miller, inventor extraordinaire and my newest collaborator.”
The guests clapped politely.
Harrington then continued. “Mr. Miller has a number of brilliant ideas for devices that will give us a competitive edge as our ventures expand. In fact, I’ll be sponsoring his work right here upon my estate.”
Another round of applause met his words. Elena added hers to the mix as excitement made her heart pump faster. The inventor? Here? Why, he’d be working with all kinds of tools and equipment! No wonder her father had commissioned a new structure on the north side of the grounds. He was always involved in one construction project or another so she hadn’t given the matter any thought. She vowed to pay more attention to his business ventures in the future, especially if they concerned intriguing inventions—and their creators.
“In the meantime,” Harrington continued, “let us enjoy a demonstration of his latest automaton—my new gardener. What did you call him, Mr. Miller?”
Daniel smiled pleasantly. “Archimedes.”
The man’s voice rang out clear and confident.
Harrington nodded. “A noble appellation for a noble creation. Follow me, good sirs.”
Her father led the procession into the garden. Some of the men nodded in greeting at Elena as she hurried past them. Ichabod Washburn dared to b
riefly clasp her hand, but the sensation barely registered. She had eyes only for the inventor and his amazing automaton.
She pushed her way to the front of the group and listened raptly as Mr. Miller explained how the device worked. He inserted sheets of what he called “punch cards” to transmit instructions to the device’s artificial brain. A combination of battery-powered electrical impulses and clockwork mechanisms then relayed the information to the various tools.
Mr. Miller arranged a series of cards in a compartment created for that purpose. The automaton’s torso rotated in place with a distinct whirrrr. The whole apparatus rolled forward, efficiently reversing direction without displacing either guest or blade of grass.
Moments later, Archimedes began trimming the nearby bushes. As it snipped away, the inventor relayed that Archimedes could do the work of a human gardener in a quarter of the time. Since it was both steam and clockwork driven, it eliminated the need for a horse-drawn mower.
What genius! Elena wondered if Mr. Miller might consider taking her on as his apprentice. Well, his secret apprentice. Her father would never officially approve such a relationship.
She followed Archimedes closely, mesmerized by its intricate design and function. Who knew one machine would require so many gears?
As the procession traveled farther into the garden, the men peppered her father and Mr. Miller with questions. From the other side of the device, she heard one of them ask where her father had discovered the inventor. She strained her ears over the clanks and hisses to hear the exchange.
“I’d heard rumors of a tremendous battle between Mr. Miller and a blacksmith in West Bolyston. There’d been some kind of scandal involving a scullery maid. I promptly investigated the rumor and found it to be true. The blacksmith and his woman were of no consequence, but Mr. Miller’s talents could not be denied. His devices are truly astounding. I subsequently made him an irresistible offer, and here we are.”