The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 13

In the timeline of events surrounding Edmund’s marriage, there are several chronological holes. While several events are known to have happened, either through contemporary record or logical deduction, it is not known precisely when they occurred. One such event is the scandalous and complicating arrival of Nausica Brocklehurst at Moulde Hall.

It is assumed, not without evidence, that Edmund was working in his study when there was a knock on the door.

Googoltha never knocks, Edmund’s brain spun into action. Ung only knocks if he thinks I’m hard at work, but he’s spent all his time in the garden recently. Mrs. Kippling always knocks, because she thinks it’s proper behavior. Enga…she only knocks if she thinks I need time to prepare for unexpected news…

After a long enough pause to collect his thoughts and prepare for a coming crisis, Edmund stood from his desk. “Enter.”

Enga stepped inside. “Patron? A Miss Nausica is here to see you.”

Crisis indeed. Collecting his papers and setting aside his pen, Edmund stepped out from behind his desk. “I will meet her at once. In which sitting room is she waiting?”

Enga swallowed. “She is waiting in the drive. I invited her to wait inside, but she was recalcitrant.”

While the obvious scandal of a guest waiting in the drive may seem substantial enough to a modern audience, it is nothing compared to what Edmund saw when he opened the main doors and stepped outside.

Lady Nausica Brocklehurst was not wearing a dress.

It was the first thing Edmund noticed. This was not due to any predilection for fashion, but rather because the elegant blue gown she had worn for her debut ball had been specially crafted to attract the eye and stick in the mind. Its absence, therefore, was similarly distracting.

Instead, she was wearing what could only be described as a driver’s outfit. It was a deep rich brown, (scandalous!) with thick canvas trousers (such audacity!) and a loosely fitted jacket (with unfastened buttons!). A tight cloche hat (so modern!) sat on her blonde hair, goggles (functional!) perched on her brow, while she pulled her red-leather gloves off her delicate fingers.

Edmund’s attention was not captured by the scandal of it, however. He had never been one to care about fashion choices, especially when Nausica was leaning against something far more interesting.

He had never seen an Automobile up close. He had never felt the need; he knew the principles and had designed several different kinds in the library, from electrical to steam to diesel powered. After the careful application of his intellect, there was little reason for him to bother with a hands-on inspection.

But that was an easy opinion to maintain when the opportunity was never available. Now…

“Lady Brocklehurst,” Edmund said as he descended the Moulde Hall steps. “I was unaware of your coming.”

“So was I,” Nausica smiled as he approached, leaning back and letting her jacket fall open. “I simply had to get out of the house, and decided to make the trip up to Brackenburg. I hope you don’t mind?”

Edmund studied her face. She wasn’t even trying to hide her lies. “Your Mother again?”

Nausica wrinkled her nose. “She insisted that if I was going to go for a ride that I should stop by and say I was in the neighborhood. She doesn’t approve of my driving.”

“It is a particularly modern activity,” Edmund noted.

“A thrilling one, too. Have you ever gone for a ride in an automobile?”

“Are you asking me along on your ride?”

Nausica cocked her head, a few strands of long blonde hair dangling down her shoulder. “I figure if we are to be married, it would be nice to know something about you as a person.”

“I’m afraid a wedding is most likely not in our future.”

“You don’t know my mother,” she sighed. “She is…driven, when she has a goal in her head. She can do terrible things to get what she wants. And she has friends.”

“The Church?”

“Among others. It might not be prudent to assume we won’t be married someday.”

“All the same, I’m afraid it was quite improper for you to arrive unannounced.”

“Does that mean you aren’t interested in taking a little peak underneath?”

Edmund knew of double entendres as a literary device, but he had never expected to encounter one in pleasant conversation; least of all with one of the upper-class. “You would be willing to let me inspect your automobile?”

Nausica slid a smooth hand along the shiny windshield. “I may not waste my energy fighting my mother’s schemes, but that doesn’t mean I’m unobservant. I didn’t think you were the type for an automobile ride, but you’re certainly the type who would like to take a look at the engine.”

The ramifications of spending the afternoon with her are not insignificant. The balance I’ve set up is delicate. Subtle. If anyone were to see us, it could cause incredible damage. My timeline is precise, and I would be a fool to threaten it with such a simple dalliance.

“I am curious what type of engine your vehicle uses,” Edmund admitted as he approached the sleek metal machine. “I have designed several kinds, on multiple principles.”

It was amusing, really, to see such a simple design. It was functional, of course, and more than suited to travel long distances; but Edmund was a practiced hand at mechanical processes, and he could tell after less than an hour that there were significant parts of the machine that were lacking. There was no injection coolant system, for example, so more exothermic fuels would be more likely to explode the engine, rather than improve efficiency. The positions of the piping was haphazard, resulting in several forces of energy working at cross-purposes.

Nevertheless, it was…fun, studying the engine like a doctor studied a cadaver. He didn’t need to do it, there was no scientific purpose behind his endeavor; it was merely for the discovery of it.

“You look happy.”

Edmund started out of his thoughts. “Happy? What makes you think so?” He hadn’t been smiling, had he? She hadn’t screamed, so likely not…

“You’re relaxed,” Nausica opened her fan again. “I’ve only spoken with you for a little while, both at the party and now, but I can already tell that you don’t relax easily. I think that’s happiness.”

“Ah. Thank you for telling me.” He was going to have to be more careful in the future.

“Mother says that ‘happiness is not a gentlewomanly emotion.’ Satisfied is more appropriate.”

“I am satisfied,” Edmund admitted.

“I prefer happy,” Nausica shrugged. “It’s my little rebellion. They want me to be a nice little girl who does what she’s told and is satisfied with her lot in life.”

“That is not enough for you,” Edmund noted.

“Oh, it is,” Nausica wiped a smudge of grease off Edmund’s cheek. “Truly, I have no great ambitions. I’m not interested in exploring things, or composing music. I don’t want to do much of anything, or else my worth would be in my accomplishments. No, I want to be who I am, and so I embrace what they’ve made me. I’m happy with who and what I am, and if they just want me to be satisfied, well, that’s hard luck for them.”

Edmund leaned against the automobile, letting a brief respite from conversation settle between them. She wasn’t unpleasant company. There was a simplicity to her intelligence that was calming.

Disarming, even.

By the time they had finished and Nausica had continued on her drive through Brackenburg, Edmund was more confused than he had ever been. In a very real sense, it had been a failure for Edmund to feel so comfortable with someone who was neither a clear ally nor predictable foe. He had never felt so calm around another person in his life.

No, that couldn’t be right. What about Leeta? Or Major Schtillhart? Aoide?

He had never felt calm around Leeta. Even now thinking about her smoldering eyes did strange things to his stomach. She had been an infatuation, a mystery that demanded solving. His calmness with Aoide was the peace and quiet of a machine, not a person. Major Schtillhart was simply different. They had been complimentary contrasts, each so very different than the other that they had fit perfectly together…

But Nausica, everything was so easy with her. He didn’t have to waste time or energy pulling hidden truths from her conversation; it was all right there for him to take. Every tiresome trick he had ever pulled was uneccessary. She was inquisitive and clever, yes, but also relaxing. She wasn’t a fool, she was charming.

Edmund heaved a sigh as he closed the Moulde Hall doors behind him. It wouldn’t be a bad thing…to be married to someone as charming as —

“Patron?”

Edmund turned to see Enga stepping through a nearby door, silver plate in hand. “Yes?”

“A telegram has just arrived, sir, from Mr. Wislydale Rotledge.”

It is important to note how little information a five word telegram can impart. To any outside reader, the tiny letter was little more than a note to expect Wislydale after dinner.

To Edmund, it said so much more. Wislydale had not only stooped to sending a telegram, but he had not requested Edmund’s time. He had simply stated he would come, and not in a few days; in a few hours.

Much has been made in the annuls of natural science of the “flight or fight” response. Edmund had experienced the gut-wrenching sensation several times in his life, but never had it been accompanied with such a blistering sense of self-recrimination. Fool Moulde! Speaking with Nausica outside in the open air, where anyone could see him! A passing lady, a skulking priest, even a young lad could be easily bribed into detailing what he saw as he ran down the street, peeking through the wrought-iron fence. Wislydale knew.

Edmund folded the telegram and replaced it on Enga’s plate. “Thank you.” He shot her a quick glance. “Have arrangements already been made?”

“Yes, sir.”

Edmund nodded appreciatively. She was making a fine butler.

---

After dinner, Edmund withdrew to the sitting room to wait.

“Wait” was, of course, a mis-characterization of what Edmund was doing. There was no such thing as waiting for Edmund anymore. There was too much to do. There were letters, as always, and any number of facets of his own plan to check on. He needed to write Kolb at some point to make sure the factory was proceeding on schedule. He would need to write to several spies he had procured for sundry purposes, and redirect their efforts to the northern boroughs of Brackenburg.

By the time Enga knocked on his door to announce Wislydale, Edmund had almost forgotten he was coming.

Edmund’s tall cousin practically fell into the room, sloshing his drink about as he gripped a nearby chair for support. “By Jove! Patron! It’s…well…I don’t suppose it’s good to see you, really, but…I’m here to see you, what?”

“So you are.” Edmund gestured for Wislydale to sit, which he neglected to do. Instead the man wandered to another chair, and grasped its back with an equally firm grip as the first. “What can I do for you?” Edmund asked when his cousin had managed to stabilize.

“Eh?” Wislydale blinked as he drank the last of his drink. “Oh, yes. I say, old boy, I was just passing through Brackenburg and I thought…well, I think it’s high time we sort this all out, old boy, don’t you think?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“The wedding, of course.” Wislydale gestured with his empty glass. “I say, I don’t suppose I could get a top-up, old boy?” Without waiting for permission, he staggered towards the drinks cabinet, blowing through his mustache. “Thing is, chap, dear Patron doesn’t seem to be too interested in the wedding. Only cares about seeing the contract fulfilled, what? The wedding itself is just a bit of a show.”

Edmund nodded. “An important show.”

“Yes, well,” Wislydale’s normally unfocused eyes locked onto the sherry as it poured into his glass, “You and I both know that, what? He’s always been quite the pragmatic old duffer.”

Edmund watched while his intoxicated guest found a chair to sink into. Where was this casual friendliness coming from? If Edmund were a fool, he might have believed he and Wislydale were on the same side, working for the same goal.

“But you and I,” Wislydale said once he had settled, “we’re working for the same goal. We care about standards, what? By Jove, could you imagine the Mouldes and the Rotledges putting on a sub-standard wedding? Unthinkable, what?”

“Quite.”

“So I thought we should discuss certain…” the ice clinked as he waved his glass, “particulars. Details.”

“If you like,” Edmund shifted in his chair, weighing the benefits of prying further. “Is there a reason you wanted to speak in person?”

“Ha!” Wislydale took a sip of sherry. “By Jove, old boy, I know you well enough to know your letters are a knotty ball of twine, what? I can hardly understand what you’re saying half the time.”

It only took a moment for Edmund to unwrap his cousin’s comment and recognize it as a dear compliment. “Very well then. What particulars had you in mind?”

“It’s this finances thing,” Wislydale swung his glass about, barely managing to keep from sloshing sherry across Edmund’s desk. “Where will it end? I say, old boy, someday we’ll end up having to pay taxes.” He shook his head, swallowing another throat-full. “Everyone knows it. Have you heard, Lady Postlethwip’s son is marrying a banker?”

Edmund, of course, had. “Did your survey not provide you enough liquidity?”

“Would you believe it,” Wislydale sneered, “my promissory note was rejected! A full account of the mine was delivered, and it didn’t make a speck of difference. No, they want cash.” He shuddered at the unfamiliar word.

Edmund nodded. “Well, you need not be concerned. Before he left, Tricknee arranged for the entire marriage to be the responsibility of the Moulde Family. You need not pay a single shilling.” You must have known that already.

“Oh?” Wislydale blinked through the drink. “Jolly good, old boy! Then you’ve already planned everything? Wedding ready, soup to nuts?”

Fool Moulde! “I am currently considering the Announcement ball,” Edmund covered his mistake. “I feel it is there that one can truly make a statement about the future.”

“Picked a date, yet?”

Edmund’s blood chilled. “I have offered several options to Patron Rotledge, he hasn’t responded yet.”

Wislydale’s head lolled as he grinned. “Jolly good. Jolly good, old boy. You know something, I almost bought it, what?”

“What do you mean?”

He watched as Wislydale shifted his intoxicated girth forward, his glass waving in his hand. “You’re just aching to find some excuse to break off the engagement with Googoltha, aren’t you? Break the contract, and all the bauxite is yours, what? Funding at last for the impoverished Moulde Family, and then you can marry that Brocklehurst girl; oh yes, I’ve jolly well heard about her.”

“I can assure you, whatever you’ve heard —”

“Shall I tell you what I’ve heard, old boy?” Wislydale sloshed. “I’ve heard that young Brocklehurst girl stopped by this afternoon with her automobile, and spent the day here tinkering in the drive with you. That was all you were doing together? Tinkering?”

“I’m more concerned with the Church,” Edmund said. “They have expressed concern with — .”

“Hornswaggle!” Wislydale smirked. “You’re no bloody Moulde if you can’t see a loophole out of that! Another excuse, what? Church Humbug and mineral rights. Pah! You may have had Tricknee over a barrel, and Patron bally well seems to think you can be trusted, but I know you a bit better than either of them, what?”

“Yes,” Edmund nodded. “You do.”

Wislydale’s eyes narrowed. “You signed a contract, what? Haggard Hill, the mine, every bloody inch belongs to the Rotledges. If not now, it will be the instant you marry Googoltha.”

“That’s right.”

Wislydale licked his lips and shifted in his chair. “Do you know what an Earthmover is? Marvelous new invention. I know we Founding Family members aren’t supposed to be much for new inventions, but this one is quite the cracker. Invented by a German company, based on designs of those Trench-Crawlers in the war, what? It’s a diesel powered shovel and plow, all rolled into one. Only it’s big. Very big. And because of this machine, they’ve developed a whole new kind of mining! Oh yes, it’s not just sending young lads and ladies down into the tunnels with pickaxes and wheelbarrows. No more steam powered mine-carts and hand-drills, old boy. Now they can just dig. They can dig miles of land away. It’s called Strip-mining. They can literally flatten all of Haggard Hill, and sift every piece of my bauxite out of the rubble, what? If you force my hand, old chap, I will hire this German company, and I will flatten Haggard Hill around your dratted mansion. You’ll be left on a dirt pillar in the middle of a slag heap, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Edmund cleared his throat. “I’m certain there will be no need for anything so drastic.”

“No?” Wislydale hiccuped. “When’s the wedding?”

“I’m afraid there are several possibilities that I have yet to —”

Edmund was interrupted by Wislydale pulling a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and slamming it on the table.

“Choose now,” Wislydale spat. “I will not be leaving until you specify a date and time for the arranged marriage between you and Googoltha to be fulfilled. I will not be held prisoner by a neophyte Patron’s juvenile delaying tactics, what?”

Edmund grasped at the few straws he had. “I’m not certain I could choose right now. There are a lot of things that need to be considered, and I’ve —”

“You’ve already considered them all,” Wislydale sneered. “I taught you for months on etiquette, and saw how you handled three heads of the Founding Families, and solved our blood feud in one evening. I don’t trust what the professors at Grimm’s say about your performance, and I followed your exploits in the War. If you don’t already have a date in your head, than you aren’t half the Moulde you need to be.”

In point of fact, Edmund didn’t have a date in his head. He had been very busy thinking about other things. He’s calling my bluff. If I don’t sign, he’ll take that as confirmation that I won’t marry Googoltha. I need to pick a date. It can’t be too late, he’ll think I’m just delaying. It can’t be too early, or I’ll never be ready in time. I need more time. I need more time.

Thinking quickly and moving slowly, Edmund pulled his pen back out of his pocket.

Think, Moulde! It can’t be in July or August, that’s too soon. The groundwork hasn’t even been laid for the South Dunkin factory…There is still some acceptable time for mourning after Matron’s funeral, you can’t be expected to wed before an appropriate amount of time has passed…

Edmund unscrewed the top.

November is too late. Etiquette demands I send the invitations with enough time to respond, and then there’s the time needed to adjust arrangements depending on who accepts their invitation…And then there are the other weddings and balls and invitations that the peerage are planning. I only know about some of them — the others I’ll have to deal with as they come — but which are the important ones? The families I can’t insult, the balls I can’t avoid or overshadow…which ones?

Edmund signed his name in a slow looping hand.

There’s the Dove’s summertime soiree, and the Knittles are demanding I show to their granddaughter’s wedding. I need to arrange a ball with Lord Grabham…no, I can skip Lord Grabham, he’s too eager to be insulted so easily. The Popomuses aren’t expecting me, but if I show up anyway…and then there’s the Charters…

Edmund moved his pen to the empty line, waiting for a date. He wrote out the year…

Then the month…

Then the day.

Wislydale pulled the paper up from the table, and inspected Edmund’s scrawl with a careful eye.

“September twenty-third?” he grunted. “That’s…”

Perfect, Edmund waited for Wislydale to work through his own thought process.

“Fine,” he finished. “I jolly well knew you’d worked it all out already. I’ll thank you not to perform this silly little pantomime with me ever again.” He paused. “We are going to be relatives, soon, after all.”

“We already are,” Edmund noted.

“Yes, of course,” Wislydale blearily blinked as he took another drink. “But…I say, you know what I mean, what?”

“Yes,” Edmund nodded. “I think I do. Would you care to go to the opera with me?”

Wislydale hiccuped. “I say, what’s that?”

“The Rites of the Modern Age is currently showing at the Brackenburg Royal Opera House. Perhaps we could both attend? I have heard it is a marvelous performance.”

Wislydale gaped. “I say, old boy. I never thought you were an opera man.”

Neither had Edmund. “A public display of our unity would go far, I think, in proving my devotion to the arranged marriage?”

“Hm.” Wislydale twisted his glass between his fingers before swallowing the last of his drink. “Yes. I say, all those Aristocrats seeing us together in the same box…Jolly good idea, old chap.”

With a teetering step that almost sent him crashing into the wall, Wislydale staggered to the door where Enga was already waiting to show him out.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Damn Wislydale! Edmund had a plan to solve everything, and now Wislydale had thrown a spanner into the gears with his demand for a wedding date! Now, Edmund was forced into haste. He needed to be fast. Blindingly fast. Dangerously fast.

But he could still do it. There was still time.

---

Edmund had to make many changes to his behavior after becoming Patron. Presiding over a Founding Family came with a large number of expectations; not only involving the matters of conversation and proper behavior in pleasant company, but also behavior outside pleasant company.

Hobbies was one such field with which Edmund had no experience. Hobbies are a vital part of any landed-gentry’s life.¹ Having something to occupy ones time not only provided protection against Ennui; but also ensured that should one ever attend a dinner party after a particularly excellent afternoon of, say, badminton; there would always be someone at hand who could appreciate the day’s fortune.²

The difference between a hobby and a passion, as far as Edmund could tell, was that a hobby had to provide absolutely no value to the world at large. Sport, gardening, horse-riding; they were all perfect examples of “wasting time.”

Since Matron’s death, Edmund had tried various hobbies, such as horse-race gambling, piano, cricket (difficult with no one else to play with), drinking, scrap-booking, and shooting. None of them had fit Edmund’s sensibilities, and few of his attempts lasted longer than an hour.

His current endeavor was to become an aficionado of the theatres and music halls of Britannia, and it was this that gave him the idea of inviting Wislydale to a showing of The Rites of the Modern Age, the first ballet ever orchestrated and choreographed to be performed by automatic mechanisms.

There will be no need to describe the Brackenburg Royal Opera House, as there are few people of any note who are unfamiliar with the building. Nor will time will be spent describing the inside of the Moulde’s opera box, as the legal costs are largely prohibitive.

Neither will there be a description of the performance, as there are few ballets more famous than the riot-inducing Rites of the Modern Age. Indeed, Edmund himself remembered little of the plot or music,³ as he was far more interested in the performers.

Hung on strings and connected to diesel engines with thin rubber tubing, the ballet was performed entirely by machines. The automated dancers were seven automatons specifically built with diamond-precision movements, who spun and danced their structured choreography while the orchestra played. They were puppets, as all true ballet artists are.

Edmund had never been so terrified.

They were like corpses, yanked this way and that across the stage grim imitation of their human counterparts. Tugged along on arms of metal and rubber, the dancers jumped and pranced in horrific mockery, all for the amusement of the onlooking throng.

He remembered Aoide, his beloved automaton in the Library, and how her movements were so smooth and flowing, revealing a spark of life hidden somewhere deep in the machine. These revitalized corpses were stiff and halting. Their faces were not sculpted and painted in artistic glorification of the human form, but shaped and molded into twisted exaggerations.

They were trying so hard to be human, and failing so clearly…

At last, the first act was finished. The morbid dancers took their bow, and the curtains closed. At last, Edmund could release his held breath, his heartbeat began to slow.

Then, to his stunned horror, the room — the entire room — rose from their seats as one, applauding madly at the twisted scene they had just witnessed.

Had they not seen what Edmund had seen? Had the entire display of mechanical mockery slipped right past their uncritical gaze?

While the audience stood and applauded in euphoric delight, Edmund ran from the Moulde’s box and headed straight for the lounge. By the time Wislydale had extracted himself from his seat, Edmund had already gone through three glasses of gin.

A standing ovation! Was there anything more damning than that?

---

What follows is an excerpt from the Sir Edmund Codex, dated the 11th of June, 1881, the day following the recorded attendance of Sir Edmund Moulde at the Brackenburg Royal Opera House:

I need an heir.

This is a truth that I have become comfortable with, no matter the difficulties involved. It is a matter beyond my ability to change, much like the wind or the tides.⁴

Yet, while I find myself filled with concern over this fact, I remain resolutely a Moulde, and as such I have studied this concept from every available angle. I am now confident that I have conceived of an idea that instead fills me with excitement.

There are, after all, many different kinds of heirs.

When I was eight, Junapa brought me into her confidence and taught me games of strategy. Chess, draughts, board games from the furthest and most exotic lands. When I asked her why she did this, why she provided such valuable lessons for me, she gave me perhaps my most valuable lesson.

“What does it matter which body commands the army, if the war was won with the same mind?”

Birthing a child is only half⁵ of the process. Patron Plinkerton passed on poems to his son through Aoide, and while Rotchild was ungrateful, these poems eventually made their way to me. Matron, though I was not of her blood, taught me much of how to lead a Family. Lessons passed from one generation to the next are as much progeny as offspring.

How? There are so many possibilities. Perhaps I could write my own books,⁶ and add them to the treasure trove that is my library. Perhaps I could create a tutorship for young children, or create a school of my own to rival Grimm’s in quality and exclusivity. Perhaps I could publish my every design, blueprint, and formula I have ever invented.

Better still, I could create my every invention. Someday, the world could come and wander among my inventions like a museum to my life, curated by the finest automatons of the age.⁷

No. If I am to give birth, let it be to a being of worthiness. I will not risk the life of another with my inept parental bungling. I will create life of a new kind, from that which has not yet had the fortune to live.

I can see it now, how I have been heading here all my life. Aoide and the Mechanus Vitae. My Revitalizer. Kolb’s arm and the machines of Harmingsdown. Nausica’s car. Life is but a machine, and so a machine is a kind of life.

I have seen elegant designs in ancient scrolls and manuscripts in the Library, limited only by the available tools at the time. Now, with diesel and steel, the promise of the age can finally be brought to life. A new kind of life, free from Aodie’s strings, the Priest’s cogs and belts, the dancer’s levers and rubber tubing. Entirely mechanical.

It is a good name. I shall call them Mechanicals.

In my mind’s eye, I see thousands of them, marching across fields with sickles and sythes in their metal hands, reaping the harvest faster than any human. I see them in factories, belching black smoke as they smelt and forge the metals of the future into engines and flying machines. I see armies marching, wielding the weapons of war in place of their mortal fellows.

There are still many parts I need to design on my own. How will this new life see? Or hear? Can it keep its balance on its own, or will it need help in the form of gyroscopic-detectors in the hips and shoulders? Will it speak through sound, like Aoide; or print on strips of paper, typed out with my own uniquely developed dotted code? Perhaps it would use my Typograph, and write out letter-length communications? Or will it need to speak at all?

I cannot answer that question until I knew exactly what it’s function will be. How can I design a form without knowing its function?

All automation is designed for a purpose. Aoide, my beloved statuesque rhapsode, recites poetry and is perfectly designed for that function. The Penitent Priests embody their piety. As for my Mechanicals, what is the function of living?