Arabella of Mars Read online

  But, alas, all his great expense and careful packing had gone for naught, for when it had been uncrated it refused to play a note. Mother, never well-disposed toward her husband’s expensive pastime, had been none too secretly relieved.

  That had been nearly eight months ago. Eight months of frilly dresses and stultifying conversation, and unceasing oppressive damp, and more than any thing else the constant inescapable heaviness. Upon first arriving on Earth, to her shame Arabella had found herself so unaccustomed to the planet’s gravity that she had no alternative but to be carried from the ship in a sedan-chair. She had barely been able to stand for weeks, and even now she felt heavy, awkward, and clumsy, distrustful of her body and of her instincts. Plates and pitchers seemed always to crash to the floor in her vicinity, and even the simple act of throwing and catching a ball was beyond her.

  Not that she was allowed to perform any sort of bodily activity whatsoever, other than walking and occasionally dancing. Every one on Earth, it seemed, shared Mother’s attitudes concerning the proper behavior of an English lady, and the slightest display of audacity, curiosity, adventure, or initiative was met with severe disapproval. So she had been reduced, even as she had on Mars, to skulking about by night—but here she lacked the companionship of Michael and Khema.

  On Mars, Michael, her only brother, had been her constant companion, studying with her by day and racing her across the dunes by night. And Khema, their Martian nanny or itkhalya, had been to the two of them nurse, protector, and tutor in all things Martian. How she missed them both.

  Setting her candle down, Arabella seated herself on the floor behind the automaton and lifted its skirts, in a fashion that would have been most improper if it were human. Beneath the suffocating layers of muslin and linen the automaton’s ingenious mechanisms gleamed in the candlelight, brass and ivory and mahogany each adding their own colors to a silent symphony of light and shadow. Here was the mainspring, there the escapement, there the drum. The drum was the key to the whole mechanism; its pins and flanges told the device where to place its fingers, when to nod, when to appear to breathe. From the drum, dozens of brass fingers transmitted instructions to the rest of the device through a series of levers, rods, springs, and wires.

  Arabella breathed in the familiar scents of metal, whale-oil, and beeswax before proceeding. She had begun attempting to repair the device about two months ago, carefully concealing her work from her mother, the servants, and even her sisters. She had investigated its mysteries, puzzled out its workings, and finally found the displaced cog that had stilled the mechanism. But having solved that puzzle, Arabella had continued working with the machine, and in the last few weeks she had even begun making a few cautious modifications. The pins in the drum could be unscrewed, she had learned, and placed in new locations to change the automaton’s behavior.

  At the moment her project was to teach it to play “God Save the King,” as the poor mad fellow could certainly use the Lord’s help. She had the first few measures working nearly to her satisfaction and was just about to start on “Send him victorious.” Laying the folded hearth-rug atop the harpsichord’s strings to muffle the sound, she wound the automaton’s mainspring and began to work, using a nail-file, cuticle-knife, and tweezers to reposition the delicate pins.

  She was not concerned that her modifications might be discovered between her working sessions. It was only out of deference to Mr. Ashby, the absent paterfamilias, that her mother even allowed it to remain in the drawing-room. The servants found the device disquieting and refused to do more than dust it occasionally. And as for Fanny and Chloë, Arabella’s sisters were both too young to be allowed to touch the delicate mechanism.

  For many pleasant hours Arabella worked, repeatedly making small changes, rolling the drum back with her hand, then letting it play. She would not be satisfied with a mere music-box rendition of the tune; she wanted a performance, with all the life and spirit of a human player. And so she adjusted the movements of the automaton’s body, the tilt of its head, and the subtle motions of its pretended breath as well as the precise timing and rhythm of its notes.

  She would pay for her indulgence on the morrow, when her French tutor would stamp his cane each time she yawned—though even when well-slept, she gave him less heed than he felt he deserved. Why bother studying French? England had been at war with Bonaparte since Arabella was a little girl, and showed no sign of ever ceasing to be so.

  But for now none of that was of any consequence.

  When she worked on the automaton, she felt close to her father.

  * * *

  The sky was already lightening in the east, and a few birds were beginning to greet the sun with their chirruping song, as Arabella heaved the hearth-rug out of the harpsichord and spread it back in its accustomed place. Perhaps some day she would have an opportunity to hear the automaton perform without its heavy, muting encumbrance.

  She looked around, inspecting the drawing-room with a critical eye. Had she left any thing out of place? No, she had not. With a satisfied nod she turned and began to make her way back to her bedroom.

  But before she even reached the stairs, her ear was caught by a drumming sound from without.

  Hoofbeats. The sound of a single horse, running hard. Approaching rapidly.

  Who could possibly be out riding at this hour?

  Quickly extinguishing the candle, Arabella scurried up the stairs in the dawn light and hid herself in the shadows at the top of the steps. Shortly thereafter, a fist hammered on the front door. Arabella peered down through the banister at the front door, consumed with curiosity.

  Only a few moments passed before Cole, the butler, came to open the door. He, too, must have heard the rider’s hoofbeats.

  The man at the door was a post-rider, red-eyed and filthy with dust. From his leather satchel he drew out a thin letter, a single sheet, much travel-worn and bearing numerous post-marks.

  It was heavily bordered in black. Arabella suppressed a gasp.

  A black-bordered letter meant death, and was sadly familiar. Even in the comparatively short space of time since her arrival on Earth, no fewer than five such letters had arrived in this small community, each bearing news of the loss of a brother or father or uncle to Bonaparte’s monstrous greed. But Arabella had no relatives in the army or navy, and had no expectation of her family receiving such a letter.

  “Three pounds five shillings sixpence,” the post-rider said, dipping his head in acknowledgement of the outrageousness of the postage. “It’s an express, all the way from Mars.”

  At that Arabella was forced to bite her knuckle to prevent herself from crying aloud.

  Shaking his head, Cole placed the letter on a silver tray and directed the rider to the servants’ quarters, where he would receive his payment and some refreshment before being sent on his way. As Cole began to climb the stairs Arabella scurried back to her room, her heart pounding.

  * * *

  Arabella paced in her bedroom, sick with worry. Her hands worked at her handkerchief as she went, twisting and straining the delicate fabric until it threatened to tear asunder.

  A black-bordered letter. An express. No one would send such dire news by such an expensive means unless it concerned a member of the family. She forced herself to hope that it might be an error, or news of some distant relative of whose existence she had not even been aware … but as the silence went on and on, that hope diminished swiftly.

  Who was it who had passed? Father, or Michael? Which would be worse? She loved them both so dearly. Michael and she were practically twins, and he had many more years ahead of him, so his loss would surely be the greater tragedy. But Father … the man who had shared with her his love of automata, who had sat her on his knee and taught her the names of the stars, who had quietly encouraged her to dare, to try, to risk, despite Mother’s objections … to lose him would be terrible, terrible indeed.

  Every fiber of her being insisted that she run to her mother’s room, burst th
rough the door, and demand an answer. But that would be unladylike, and, as Mother had repeatedly admonished, unladylike behavior was entirely unacceptable under even the most pressing circumstances. And so she paced, and pulled her handkerchief to shreds, and tried not to cry.

  And then, startling though not a surprise, a knock came on the door. It was Nellie, her mother’s handmaid. “Mrs. Ashby requests your presence, Miss Ashby.”

  “Thank you, Nellie.”

  Trembling, Arabella followed Nellie to her mother’s dressing-room, where Fanny and Chloë, already present, were gathered in a miserable huddle with their mother. The black-bordered letter lay open on her mother’s writing-desk, surrounded by the scattered fragments of the seal, which was of black wax.

  Arabella stood rooted, just inside the door, her eyes darting from the letter to her mother and sisters. It was as though it were a lukhosh, or some other dreadful poisonous creature, that had already struck them down and was now lying in wait for her. She wondered whether she was expected to pick it up and read it.

  She ached to know what the letter contained. She wanted nothing more than to flee the room.

  Nellie cleared her throat. “Ma’am?” Mother raised her head, her eyes flowing with tears. Noticing Arabella, she gently patted the settee by her side. The girls shifted to make room for her.

  Arabella sat. Each of her sisters clutched one of her hands, offering comfort despite their own misery.

  “The news is … it is … it is Mr. Ashby,” Mother said. She held her head up straight, though her chin trembled. “Your father has passed on.”

  “Father…?” Arabella whispered.

  And even though the distance between planets was so unimaginably vast … even though the news must be months old … even though it had been more than eight months since she had seen him with her own eyes … somehow, some intangible connection had still remained between her and her father, and at that moment she felt that connection part, tearing like rotted silk.

  And she too collapsed in sobs.

  2

  AN UNCOMFORTABLE DINNER

  Five weeks later, Arabella arrived at Chester Cottage, the home of her cousin Simon Ashby in Oxfordshire. She stepped from her carriage, handed down by William the footman, and was greeted by Simon and his wife Beatrice.

  Simon, a barrister, was a nervous man, thin and pale, with watery eyes and light brown hair worn a bit longer than the current fashion, but as he was her only living relative on her father’s side of the family she felt quite tenderly toward him. “We were so very sorry to hear of your loss,” he said.

  “He was a very good man,” Arabella replied, “and I miss him dearly.” She blinked away tears.

  The last five weeks had been very hard. Even though Father’s passing, so distant in time as well as space, had not affected the family in any immediate or practical sense, the loss had affected Arabella greatly. Inconsolable, she had taken to her bed for days at a time, refusing food, water, and solace.

  Beatrice, a plump girl with tiny hands, offered Arabella a handkerchief. “When your mother wrote to us of the depth of your grief,” she said, “offering our humble home for a brief respite was the least we could do.”

  “I thank you for your kindness, and I extend my mother’s thanks as well.” Arabella took a deep breath and looked about herself. Chester Cottage was, indeed, quite humble, and rather far removed from town, but it was at least a fresh locale lacking any memories for Arabella.

  Every thing at Marlowe Hall reminded her of her loss. Whenever she managed to forget for a moment that her father had passed away, she would immediately catch a glimpse of Fanny all in black, or the shrouded mirrors, or the black mourning wreath that hung over the front door, and grief would come flooding back.

  Even the automaton harpsichord player, the one thing that had kept her sane in the last few months, now served only to remind her of her father. The very sight of it brought tears to her eyes.

  Arabella shook her head, dispelling the memory. “I suppose I should also extend my condolences to you,” she said. “He was, after all, your uncle.”

  “You are too kind,” Simon said, and bowed his head. But his expression, Arabella thought, was rather sour, and she wondered at this.

  They led Arabella into the cottage and introduced her to infant Sophie, their firstborn, who was not yet two months old. Then they showed Arabella the room which would be hers during her stay. It was small and rather shabbily furnished, in keeping with the rest of the house, and as her things were brought in from the carriage Arabella could not help but notice that the Ashbys of Chester Cottage had only a single servant, an elderly maid-of-all-work called Jane.

  But, despite the meanness of her cousins’ circumstances, they had offered her hospitality, and there was nothing here to remind her of her father. Arabella determined to be grateful for the opportunity to rest her battered spirit.

  “If you don’t mind, Miss Ashby,” William said to Arabella once she was settled, “I’d best be returning home straight away.” It had been a lengthy journey, and even with the long summer days he would need to set off immediately in order to return to Marlowe Hall in time for Sunday supper.

  “By all means, William. I wish you a safe journey home, and look forward to seeing you again in two weeks.”

  * * *

  At dinner that afternoon, after Jane had taken away the bowls from the rather thin and unsatisfactory soup, Beatrice said, “I believe we shall go berry-picking upon the morrow. Would you care to join us? It will be little Sophie’s first such occasion.”

  At the mention of his infant daughter, to Arabella’s surprise, Simon’s face clouded. Surely this reminder of the recent addition to his family should raise his spirits, not lower them?

  “Is berry-picking a suitable activity for small children?” Arabella asked, not certain how to interpret her host’s sudden change of emotion.

  Beatrice smiled. “She will not be taking an active part, to be sure; she will simply be carried along, to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine.”

  Arabella ran a finger under the scratchy cuff of her stiff mourning costume. Even her favorite dresses had been taken away by her father’s death, for Venusian silk did not accept dye. They had all been replaced by heavy, rustling outfits of black bombazine, more suitable for mourning but exceedingly uncomfortable. “Forgive me my ignorance. It is not a thing I have done before.”

  Beatrice tilted her head inquiringly. “Do they not have berries on Mars?”

  “Not as such. We have khula, which I suppose you would consider a fungus, and gethown, which is a tuber … they are quite sweet and succulent, but they must be dug up, not picked from a vine.” For a moment Arabella lost herself in memory, recalling happy days with her beloved Michael, digging khula together with pail and shovel.

  She wondered, as she often did, what Michael might be doing at this very moment. Most likely he was engaged in some serious activity, directing the harvest or balancing the accounts, as befitted the head of the family. He would attain his majority in just a few months; until then his godfather Mr. Trombley, the family solicitor and a dependable man of sober stolidity, would act as his legal guardian.

  No one doubted that Michael was entirely capable of managing the Ashby household and plantations as well as his father had done, but still she worried about him. He must be overwhelmed by his new responsibilities, as well as torn with grief from his father’s loss. How she wished she could be with him now, to comfort and aid him in this difficult time!

  “Mr. Ashby and I met while picking berries,” Beatrice said, interrupting Arabella’s thoughts. “Perhaps you will be as fortunate.” She smiled and inclined her head coquettishly. “There are many eligible bachelors in Oxfordshire.…”

  “Heavens no!” Arabella gasped, then immediately regretted her outburst. “That is … I mean to say … I am sure you are very happy together, but I … I have no interest in male companionship at this time.”

  “Truly?” Beatrice
replied with unfeigned astonishment. Simon, Arabella noted, was silent and still appeared distracted. “I have never heard before of a healthy girl of seventeen years being uninterested in the other sex. Are you already engaged, then?”

  Arabella frowned and shook her head.

  “But what of your sisters? They will require you to introduce them into society.”

  “I am keenly aware of this.” Arabella sighed. “Ever since my father’s passing, my mother has made it abundantly clear that I am to be married as soon as possible, for my sisters’ sake if not my own. But every suitor she has presented to me has been … entirely unsuitable.” The best young men England had to offer were, it seemed, barely comparable to her most ordinary acquaintances on Mars, and could not begin to hold a candle to her brother. Vapid empty-headed dandies the lot of them, knowing nothing of any thing beyond horses and hunting, lacking in any spirit of adventure, and completely uninterested in automata, astronomy, or any other thing of importance. “I suppose that I must be married eventually, but I cannot imagine to whom.”

  “La!” Beatrice fanned herself. “You Martian girls are so headstrong!”

  Arabella smiled wryly at the observation. “If you were to ask my mother, my upbringing on Mars has completely ruined me for polite society.” She grimaced as she recalled the many whispered conversations she’d overheard between her parents late at night, her mother calling her a “wild child” and demanding to take her, Fanny, and Chloë back to Earth to prevent her sisters turning out as she had. Mother had prevailed in that argument, in the end, and Arabella supposed that she would eventually have her way in this one as well. “Truly, I am not suited for England. How I wish I could return to the land of my birth!”

  At this Simon finally joined in the conversation. “I cannot imagine pining for Mars,” he said. “It seems a horrid place, cold and dry and crawling with those dreadful natives.”

  “I would much rather be there than England,” Arabella countered. “It is so warm and damp all the time here, and every thing is so impossibly heavy! And I find the soil unbearably filthy, unlike the clean dry sand found on so much of Mars. The first time I saw an earthworm I was horrified.”