CamillasConsequences (13 page)

“Flying is freedom for the soul,” I explain.

He arches his brows, as if contemplating my remark. Ursula returns with my Panoptoscope bag. She could have given it to Derrenger, but she must want to examine Hephaestus for herself. Next to him, she has a tiny stature, even smaller than my own, and she gasps as she looks into his dark eyes. Her eyelids flutter, she smiles at me.

“He’s so handsome!” she whispers. “But I thought you’d pick a man of the upper classes.” The moment she says it, she looks abashed.

“It’s all right.” For I should get used to this type of reaction. Considering my wealth and status, many socialites will not accept the fact that I am being courted by a man of the middle classes. I have barely become accustomed to the idea myself. No matter. My life is my own, and I will make whatever choices lead me down the path of happiness.

“Thank you, Ursula.” With a last appraising glance at Hephaestus, the girl runs to the stable, undoubtedly to share her impressions with Derrenger.

I swing my bag over my shoulder, realizing that my white blouse and lavender skirt are most inappropriate clothing for this type of activity. Nevertheless, after buckling myself into the harness and ensuring Hephaestus has safely done so as well, I flip the switch that begins the whisper-soft whir of the engines. I make a running start, Hephaestus keeping pace behind me. As the Silverwing rises into the aether, I sit in the chair, sensing Hephaestus adjust his bulk into his own seat. The wind whips my face and I relish the invigorating sensation. While both my hands keep busy tending to the directional levers, and my skirt flies wildly above my knees, my passenger leans forward, placing his hand on the smooth skin of my thigh.

The sun hangs low in the sky, setting the clouds ablaze with shades of plum and peach and the deepest vermilion. I fly directly into its beauty.

“Nature creates art whose splendor cannot be duplicated by man,” Hephaestus calls over my shoulder.

I nod to show my agreement. After several minutes of flight, when my passenger continues to comment on the sunset’s rich palette, the Countess of Winchester’s sprawling estate appears beneath us. Her husband ensures their acres of lush forest are well-stocked with stags and the lake kept filled with trout. In comparison to this castle with its many wings and turrets, my manor resembles a simple country cottage. I used to dream of marrying a man who would make such a castle my home. My dreams have changed.

“Let us land here,” I suggest upon locating a clearing in the woods.

“We would be trespassing on private property.”

I glance back at him and smile. “I know.”

Without waiting for his approval, I angle the right directional lever, sending us into a rapid downward spiral. Exhilarated by the speed, I burst into laughter, and Hephaestus joins in. When I near the ground, I pull sharply back on both levers, causing the nose of the Silverwing to elevate slightly, and the glider comes to a soft landing in the middle of a meadow. Here, we find ourselves away from the last rays of sunlight as the trees engulf us with their shadows.

Hephaestus folds the contraption while I remove the Panoptoscope from my bag. “I want to share my passion with you.” It has been so long since I have taken a picture of anything save an adulterer’s dalliances. Tendrils of fog drift toward us, and I stare off into the mist. The scene transports me back to the time I first saw Samson. He stood in a clearing, cursing at his Panoptoscope, which was perched precariously on a tripede. I grow very quiet.

“What is it?” asks Hephaestus, cradling me in his arms.

“When I met Samson, it was on an evening much like this one.”

“Tell me,” he coaxes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I gallop away from home on Beauty, my roan mare, for Father is attempting to arrange a marriage between myself and one of his business associates, a middle-aged man who owns the London National Post. They wish to quell my spirit, both of them, so I rebel in any way I can, including refusing to ride sidesaddle in the accoutrements of a fine lady. Much to my father’s dismay, I wear breeches that allow me to mount a horse like any man.

Beauty trots into a clearing in the woods. A volley of curses flies from a young man’s mouth, and I respond in amusement by echoing every profanity with equal venom. He spins around in shock, mouth agape. Blond hair slicked back in the latest fashion, he sports trimmed sideburns and wears hunting clothes that allow him to blend into his environment. His elbow jostles the Panoptoscope and the tripede sways, threatening to send the contraption crashing to the ground. Lunging at the device, he loses his footing, thudding to earth with the Panoptoscope sheltered against his chest. A fresh onslaught of obscenities rings in my ears.

When he stands up, his instrument cradled in his arms as preciously as a newborn, I make a great show of dismounting Beauty. I elevate my right boot high over her hindquarters, ensuring my silhouette gains full exposure as I swing myself to the ground. The young man’s expression is most comical, and I offer him a radiant smile.

I care not a whit about my scandalous behavior, for I fervently desire to anger my father and sever ties with his business associate at all costs. My father owns a thriving business as a spice merchant and spends much time abroad, particularly in the Indian subcontinent and Arabia. Sometimes I accompany him to India with my governess and a few tutors, so I am well-traveled and well-educated for a young woman of nineteen, a prize for most men in search of a wife.

“What manner of vixen are you?” he chortles, gazing at me in appreciation.

I delight at the word and bask in his admiring glance. Unlike most young men, he actually seems to enjoy my brazen nature. How refreshing compared to the dullard Father wishes me to marry, who frowns every time I speak my mind.

“Or are you a sorceress, come to spirit me away to a magical pleasure palace?” he asks.

The mist gives the meadow a fantastical allure, and I imagine myself sweeping him away to another world. “I am indeed an unusual find.” For my upbringing sets me apart from others. Most fathers would have left their daughters in England in the care of relatives. Mine did not. He hoped that keeping me under his wing would instill in me a cosmopolitan outlook on the world, and I learned much about how to run an enterprise. My travels gave me a thirst for adventure, a love of knowledge and a mind of my own.

“You bought a Panoptoscope?” I ask, teasing him by holding a finger before the lens and pretending to touch it.

He grabs my hand to stop me from smudging the glass, and I feel as though I have been jolted by an electrical current.

“I am Samson Thackeray, inventor of the Panoptoscope, owner of the fastest-growing business venture in all of England.” He turns over my palm and kisses the inside of my hand.

From that moment, my infatuation begins. “Oh! I have indeed heard of you, sir.” Newspapers often write about the brilliant twenty-eight-year-old inventor of Panoptoscope and his newest achievement, the cellulose reel.

“Call me Samson. And you, my sweet sorceress?”

“Camilla.” While Beauty grazes by my side, I explain why I left home.

“You are in search of a husband, then?” he says, laughter in his voice.

“My father says it is time for me to choose a suitable man.”

“What a coincidence,” he says, “for it happens I am in search of a suitable woman.”

He stares at me and I stare back, refusing to avert my eyes. Men are rarely so forward in expressing their desires, at least not in polite society. “In your opinion, what is needed for a marriage to succeed?” I wait for an answer, certain he will say money or social standing or other such nonsense.

“Love, of course.” His blue eyes gleam. “You cannot have a marriage without love. It is a form of magic, much like my invention.”

My heart skips several beats. Can it be? A man who agrees with me about the foundations of marriage? Samson kisses my hand a second time, and then explains the complex workings of his device. Afterward, I tether Beauty to a tree while Samson and I hide low in the bushes, hoping to take pictures of birds of prey. His proximity thrills me. If anyone saw us now, I would be ruined, but there will be time for propriety later when I return to my senses. Despite our closeness, Samson behaves like the perfect gentleman, concerned only with his invention and its many possibilities. He announces that he is planning to open a Panoptorium within a year.

“I am familiar with wildlife, having seen exotic animals in India,” I say. “I have ridden elephants through the jungle while the men embarked on a tiger hunt.”

“India? If you had been in possession of a Panoptoscope, you could have captured those memories forever.” To demonstrate, he takes a picture of me as I smile.

“Let me try.” When a white-tailed hawk perches in a tree in the gloom, I snap picture after picture. The clouds lift for a few moments, providing the setting sun with a last opportunity to shine, and I take great care in using those final rays to my advantage.

After Samson shows me the developed Panoptographs, which he says are of surprisingly high quality, I realize that light plays a strategic role in Panoptography, much as it does in oil painting. Although I have no skill whatsoever with a brush, I appreciate art and the interplay of color and light. Panoptography provides me with the opportunity for artistic exploration, and I take to it zealously.

Samson fascinates me. He is building an enterprise from nothing, not merely inheriting the wealth of his father, who inherited it from his father before him. Samson’s mind birthed an idea, and then cobbled it together from light plates and lenses and cellulose. So begins our partnership—brilliant inventor and intrepid Panoptographer. My father approves of Samson, a shooting star among the constellation of inventors who populate Upper London. Samson is my ideal match, for I can unleash my wild nature on my excursions with him, which take place in secrecy beyond society’s prying eyes. Yet in public we make every effort to adhere to social rules of proper conduct, and I have very rigid expectations surrounding our future relations as husband and wife. He is mine. Only mine. Or so I believed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“That is all,” I tell Hephaestus.

“Is it?” he asks.

It seemed Hephaestus was far better at obtaining information from me than I was at obtaining it from him. I take pictures of his serious face in the dusk, of the wisps of fog that curl around his feet, and the rugged hands that speak of hard physical labor.

We walk arm in arm to the edge of the wood, where we have a glorious view of the towering stone castle. The mist remains at ground level, and I dissimulate myself behind a tree, peeking out to take several Panoptographs. A few staff members exit the front doors, in addition to the Count and Countess of Winchester, who are dressed in evening finery. Hephaestus and I remain out of sight.

“Let us give them privacy,” he says.

“On the contrary, let us watch.” I peer from behind the tree trunk.

The count and countess stroll past decorative floral arrangements and sculpted hedges. She chatters amiably while he inspects the shrubs.

“Watch how they interact. See how she places her hand on his arm, how she laughs when he speaks and tilts her head attentively to listen? When he interrupts her, she allows him to continue. She respects him, defers to him.” My powers of observation are keen. What of my suitor’s? “What do you see when you look at them?”

Hephaestus licks his lips and pauses, and his chest presses against my back. “The count nods absently when she speaks. See, now she is stopping to admire a rosebush, but he walks on, casually brushing her arm off his. He looks back at her, but not out of concern. She is an afterthought.”

Very good. “Yes, I see complete disinterest on the part of the husband. Do you believe it is inevitable for a marriage to end in this manner?”

“When two individuals are truly compatible, love can endure. I am certain of it.” He pulls back a strand of my hair. “You seem to enjoy watching others.”

“I do. People are fascinating, are they not?”

“Yes, they are.” He kisses my cheek.

When the countess turns aside to examine a particularly well-sculpted shrub, the count steals a glance at the lady-in-waiting who walks a few steps behind them. It is difficult to tell in the diminishing light, but I am certain he has given her more than the casual look a man reserves for a member of his staff.

“Did you see?” I ask.

“Yes. And look at her response.”

She smiles coquettishly at the count and glances at the countess, as if she is worried her gesture might be seen. A few moments later, when the count continues on his leisurely walk, the countess suddenly spins about on her heel and returns inside. The lady-in-waiting follows her, disappearing inside the door, but scarcely a minute later she reappears, looking furtively outside.

There is no one outdoors now save the count, who stands behind a hedge so tall that it shelters him from anyone who might be gazing from a window. Hephaestus and I, on the other hand, watch without obstruction. He calls her and she hurries like any obedient servant should. He pinches her bottom and she stifles a squeal.

“He has no right!” I exclaim. Anger flares within me.

“Perhaps she has encouraged him. It would not be the first time a pretty young servant girl has attempted to lure her employer into an illicit liaison.”

“What an unfair thing to say!” I twist away from him. “The count has no interest in his wife, so obviously he has seduced the girl. He is immoral. He is guilty of a punishable sin!”

Hephaestus steps back. “What right do you have to pretend to know what truly happened between them?”

I take a long breath. What right indeed. I have given myself the right, I suppose, but his comment makes me consider my beliefs. Keeping my mouth firmly shut, I continue to watch the pair. I snap several Panoptographs, and then I activate the cellulose reel.

“Stop!” Hephaestus orders. “You have no right to document their behavior.”

Don’t I? Perhaps not. The count touches the girl’s breast and she stands very still. Because she feels she has no choice? Is she another Ursula, suffering endless abuse at the hands of her employer? Or is she a willing participant? My heart flutters in my breast. The girl breaks into a giggle and she presses her body against her lover’s. His hand lifts her skirt, and it is obvious what is about to transpire. She looks about, whispers in his ear and exposes her breasts. He squeezes them in delight.