Soulless, page 1
SOULLESS
By
T. Baggins
Soulless
Copyright © 2013 T. Baggins
First eBook Edition, July 2013
All Rights Reserved
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Publisher's Note: This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
Dedication
For Rosemary O'Malley
And much thanks and love to the following readers: Jenx Byron, Allison Hickman, Sylvan Russell, and Cindy Tuff Sutherland.
Chapter One
Maidenstone Village
Surrey, England
1798
'Tis a queer thing, surviving one's own death, Nicholas Robinson thought for what must have been the thousandth time. After his accident, the townsfolk and crofters of Maidenstone had steeled themselves for the mournful tolling of church bells. Queuing up outside Grantley, his family's manor house, the villagers had braved wind and rain to offer condolences to his grandmother. Then they'd marched to Maidenstone's lone public house, crowding the bar to quaff a pint in Nicholas's name. But Nicholas, given up for dead by the apothecary, the surgeon, and the doctor, had lived. And since that day, no one knew quite what to say to him. Or what use a broken man was to anyone, even to a woman as aged and frail as Grand-Mamma.
"Well?" Martha's voice was sharp.
Nicholas had told the girl she might address him informally while they were at lessons in his laboratory. Most of the villagers would have taken the offer as mere gentlemanly courtesy, continuing to call him "Mr. Robinson" or "sir." But Martha, coldly literal at fourteen, did not recognize unspoken nuances. When she was alone with Nicholas, she addressed him as freely as she would have spoken to the boot boy or the scullery maid.
"Have I got it wrong, then?" she asked.
"Let me see." Nicholas noted Martha's answer—12, correct—and checked her calculations. Flawless. If the girl continued to master geometry so rapidly, he'd be forced to move on to Euler's trigonometric functions to keep her attention.
"Mr. Robinson. Martha," said a voice from the doorway. Mrs. Parker's tone contained a note of disapproval, as it always did when she found Nicholas alone with the girl. The censure amused him; after his accident, he'd developed a black sense of humor. Poor Mrs. Parker insisted on pretending that, whenever Nicholas and Martha were discovered together, the potential for scandal loomed. In truth, Nicholas could have loaded his laboratory with nubile young women and, except for the fiercely loyal Mrs. Parker, no one would have cared in the least. It was infuriating. Not for the first time, Nicholas wished he could do something to offend, shock, and scandalize Maidenstone village as a whole. Alienating the residents piecemeal, on an individual basis, was losing its appeal.
"Dinner? Now?" Martha frowned at Mrs. Parker.
"Dinner, now, and be grateful for it. Preparations for tomorrow's bonfire have destroyed what little semblance of order Cook's kitchen once knew." Mrs. Parker placed the heavily-laden silver tray in its designated space. Long ago, Nicholas had provided the laboratory with a dining place by bringing up a tea table from a disused guestroom. Thus Mrs. Parker was prevented from sweeping aside his priceless scientific experiments like so much rubbish, replacing them with her idea of nutritious fare. Today it was mutton, boiled almost beyond recognition, and stewed cabbage, tough as leather. Obviously, the best food had been reserved for Grantley's annual bonfire feast.
Mrs. Parker raised her eyebrows at Martha, who appeared not to have heard the housekeeper's correction. Nicholas cleared his throat.
"Thank you, Mrs. Parker. I am grateful, ma'am." Martha forced a smile. A square-faced girl with coal black hair, dark eyes and a small, mutinous mouth, her smile failed to look particularly convincing. Fortunately, Mrs. Parker appeared satisfied. It had taken Nicholas several weeks, but he had finally impressed upon Martha a cardinal truth; insincere sentiments were the very pillars of civilization. Now, if only he could teach her to deliver those sentiments less woodenly....
"Shall I fetch you a plate, sir?" Mrs. Parker asked.
"No." The reply sounded brusque; Nicholas smiled to soften it. Mrs. Parker deserved gentleness. Thirty-two years before, she'd come to Grantley as a lady's maid to his mother. A year later, Nicholas had been born; two years later, both his parents had died of rheumatic fever. Choosing to stay on at Grantley, Mrs. Parker had served as Nicholas's surrogate mother, more and more in charge of his upbringing as Grand-Mamma grew too old to contend with an adventurous, rambunctious boy.
Grand-Mamma always vowed I'd be dead or crippled by five-and-twenty, Nicholas thought. Pity I never heeded her warning.
"Let me rise." Seizing his cane, Nicholas pulled himself upright, dragging his shorter leg as he made his way toward the dinner spread. Sometimes his stiffness forced him to endure days of bed rest. Despising himself whenever aching bones and swollen joints laid him low, Nicholas frequently attempted to walk off the pain, setting his teeth and pretending it didn't exist. A natural outdoorsman, he would have gladly limped up and down the length of his estate, taking the air and studying the yellow-scarlet leaves, had it been possible to do such a thing in peace. But Nicholas, a baronet, was lord of the manor and Maidenstone's richest resident to boot. If he ventured off alone for more than two hours, rising concern would inevitably culminate in a humiliating search party.
Martha, already seated at the table, shook out her white linen napkin, prompting a cluck from Mrs. Parker.
"Child. Mr. Robinson has yet to settle himself. Shouldn't you pour his cider? Offer to make up his plate?"
Martha frowned. "In the laboratory, I am not to behave as a maid. In the laboratory, I—"
"Mrs. Parker is well aware of my laboratory rules," Nicholas cut across the girl. It was imperative to spare the housekeeper's feelings, or repercussions for Martha would follow. "Besides, you could not pour my cider without spilling it, nor make up my plate without leaving something out. Best tuck in and let me shift for myself."
Smiling, Martha served herself a heaping portion of boiled mutton. Downstairs, the male servants received the first of everything; the choicest meat, the freshest bread, the ripest fruit. So it had been all their lives, from their mother's table, where sons always took precedence, to Cook's table, where grown men were coddled like growing boys. Only in the laboratory could Martha choose her own food and eat as much as she liked. And true to her reputation as an odd girl, Martha often seemed pleased when Nicholas remarked on her domestic failures. Heaven knew what she would have done if he hadn't singled her out for tutoring. Cropped her hair, perhaps, and run away to London dressed in boy's clothes? Hope of a fortuitous marriage was ludicrous. Even at fourteen, anyone could see it in her: the shadow of the old maid. But that, too, she wore impudently, like a laurel wreath fallen aslant.
Suppose Nature designed Martha this way? Nicholas thought. Could she be proof females are weaker only in body? That they can equal men in the mental disciplines, if properly educated?
As he loaded his plate, he chewed his lower lip, captivated by the heretical notion. As a whole man, Nicholas had sidestepped controversial notions, pushing them aside the moment they occurred to him. Now he welcomed them, even studied them, occasionally giving them precedence. What did he have to lose now?
Nicholas and Martha dined together with a minimum of talk. That was yet another trait Nicholas enjoyed about the girl—she spoke when she had something to say, not because she hoped to make herself charming or amiable. Nor did it occur to her to pity him. Martha knew he was crippled, yet that only meant he walked with a cane, navigated stairs slowly, and no longer sat a horse. She seemed completely uninterested in what had driven his wife, Lydia, to leave him, or the reason he'd never remarried. It wasn't contempt that led the girl to spread out her napkin and eat before Nicholas was served, it was respect. To her, he was still man enough to look after himself.
If I do decide to sell Grantley, I'll take her with me, Nicholas thought, realizing he meant it. Marry her, even, to prevent a scandal among those who don't know us. Martha is an unnatural woman, and I am an unnatural man. In that, at least, we are well-matched. And when I'm dead, perhaps she can continue my work.
After dinner, they resumed their geometry lesson, pausing only for Nicholas to monitor his experiments and note the results in his log. Thus far, his attempts to synthesize an organic compound, carbamide, from inorganic substances had come to naught. Still, he felt certain a breakthrough was just around the corner. His colleagues at university, whom he still corresponded with quite vigorously, were all proponents of vitalism, a theory he looked forward to disproving.
According to the doctrine of vitalis
Even as a boy, Nicholas had considered the doctrine of vitalism superstitious nonsense. Nothing in the world was beyond measure. If a Creator existed, which Nicholas did not believe, that Creator had designed a universe wholly comprehensible to the questing mind. There was no enshrined secret, no revelation gained only after death. No—the line between organic and inorganic was an imaginary one, delineated by people drunk on poetic notions of the human soul. But when Nicholas succeeded in synthesizing carbamide, also called urea, from inorganic substances, the eyes of even the most backward scientists would be opened. And the doctrine of vitalism would disappear from the annals of serious scientific inquiry forever.
Martha's lessons concluded at three o'clock. Nicholas didn't send the girl away with problems to work out or passages to read. There was enough simmering resentment among the staff about her special treatment. If Martha didn't spend at least half her time fetching, carrying, and scrubbing floors, she'd be despised beyond what even the master of Grantley could mend.
"Nicholas," Martha said as she donned her white apron and muslin cap. "You will come to the bonfire tomorrow night, won't you?"
He laughed. "No one has asked me to play monster. I understand the Forster brothers have that honor. They'll be draped in sackcloth and leaping out of the shadows."
"Not to play monster. To open the festivities. It's the Grantley Bonfire, after all," Martha said in her slow, serious way. "That makes it yours. Since Mrs. Robinson is too ill to open it herself."
"And I'm sure all Maidenstone is suitably bereft." Nicholas, who'd grown painfully stiff during the meal, gripped the tea table's edge and hauled himself to his feet.
"No. The villagers hardly seem to remember your grandmother now," Martha replied with the same feckless honesty that had once driven Cook to box her ears bloody. "As for whether the villagers want you to open the festivities... I doubt it. They want games and ale and bonfires. But I thought only of myself, and my pleasure in your company."
"Is that so?" Nicholas covered his surprise with false heartiness. "But how shall I squire a young woman at a harvest dance? Will I scramble up a tree to impress you? Compete in the horse race? Whirl you around beneath the stars?"
Martha's eyes narrowed. "You mock me."
"Of course not." Limping to Martha, he nearly placed a hand on her forearm, but thought better of it. "I mock myself. I'm unfit company for such an occasion."
"I don't think so. I enjoy talking to you." Hands on her hips, Martha swirled her skirts, watching them fan out with a satisfaction that seemed excessively juvenile for a girl of fourteen. "Without you to keep me company, Nicholas, I shall be expected to sit with Mrs. Parker and Nanny Cooper. But I like bonfires. Music. Dancing, too!" The girl tossed her head as if she'd made an outrageous admission, like faith in Father Christmas or Spring-Heeled Jack.
"Dancing? I daresay. And you call yourself a scientist," Nicholas said, adding a smile, an action he too often neglected. He was thirty-one. How old and dour he must seem to a fresh young creature like Martha. And how lonely she must be, shunned by children her own age, to care a fig for the company of someone like him.
"I assure you," Nicholas continued with what he hoped was appropriate gravity. "There was a time in my life when I adored bonfires and music and took enormous pleasure in both. You are free to do the same. With people your own age, preferably, or with Mrs. Parker and Nanny Cooper. But not with me."
Martha sighed. "At least promise to think on it."
"Very well," Nicholas lied, weary of the subject and weary of standing, too. If this Mr. Ulwin's offer proved acceptable and he sold Grantley, perhaps he'd remove himself to the city of Bath. There he could soak in medicinal hot springs every day. He'd heard the shops in Bath sold all sorts of cures, some imported from the Far East. Not only for weak limbs but for other, less obvious weaknesses, too.
"Enough of this. Downstairs, Martha," Nicholas said firmly. "Get about your tasks before Mrs. Parker has occasion to complain of you."
***
With Martha gone, Nicholas checked on his experiments again. His log required only one final entry before bed. Otherwise, the processes would go on unattended, leaving Nicholas free until Grantley's prospective buyer, Mr. Ulwin, arrived.
Six o'clock was a highly irregular hour for such a meeting, but in his letters, Ulwin had pleaded for a supper-hour meeting quite eloquently. Responsible for his ailing father and traveling with only three servants, Ulwin claimed he couldn't abandon the elderly man before sunset. Nicholas had agreed, though the man's excuses were transparently false. No doubt Ulwin's true design was to force an invitation to dinner. How better for a prospective buyer to gain a first-hand inventory of Grantley's silver, china, linens, etc.?
Nicholas didn't despise such trickery; it merely proved Ulwin an able negotiator. Still, the man would receive no invitation to dine at Grantley. And if that insulted the potential buyer, goading him into withdrawing his offer and storming out, so be it. Nicholas chuckled at the thought. Since his accident, he'd found himself almost universally underestimated, especially by newcomers to Maidenstone. Poachers tramped brazenly through his woods, forcing him to set the dogs on them; young rascals called asking for loans, unspooling yards of flattery as if Nicholas were a dotty maiden lady instead of a baronet. Nor was anyone prepared for Nicholas to behave like a man. Expressions of displeasure startled everyone; bursts of frustration, much less outright anger, set tongues wagging for days. Infuriated, Nicholas had hidden nearly half his face behind a full beard, simply for the pleasure of watching the ignorant gape. He was no longer Maidenstone's handsomest youth or her favorite son; surely his looks had ceased to matter. In fact, Nicholas often neglected to trim his beard, sometimes going for days without so much as combing his hair.
He was drinking port in his study when Ulwin arrived. The wretched man turned up almost precisely on time, just as the church tower tolled six o'clock. The study's coal fire burned merrily, warm enough to coax Nicholas's swollen joints into relative bliss. He was reading something ridiculous from the family library, an old theosophical paper professing to conjure God out of a two-variable equation. But Nicholas's sardonic pleasure in the treatise's circular logic was interrupted when his aged butler, Hart, announced, "Mr. Ulwin."
The visitor entered, but Nicholas did not rise. He could have done so; his cane was close at hand. But it was a cripple's prerogative to remain seated—a prerogative Nicholas often exercised simply to put newcomers at ill ease. Besides, the wine was having an effect, as he'd begun his nightly drinking a shade too early.
Ulwin inclined his head as Hart closed the study's double doors. Tall, spare, and startlingly handsome, with black hair and a wide smile, Ulwin displayed all the accoutrements of fine living: silver-tipped walking stick, stylish coat, rings on either hand. And beyond those peripheral recommendations, besides his tall slim figure and handsome face, the man thrummed with vitality from top to toe.
Nicholas hated him on sight.
"Mr. Robinson, I presume?"
"Indeed you do," Nicholas muttered. It was also a cripple's prerogative to be rude.
Striding forward undaunted, Ulwin removed his hat. It was an excessively fashionable thing, tall and wide, garnished with a huge silver buckle; Ulwin placed it carefully on the settee as if it were the most valuable thing in the world. At this point, it would have been appropriate for Nicholas to make a little welcoming speech, or at least greet Ulwin by name, but he said nothing.
If Ulwin took offense, he gave no sign. Crossing the study, he stopped before Nicholas's chair, clicking his boot heels and bowing from the waist.
