He was as his surname suggested: a castle. But for her, he wanted to lower the drawbridge.
It was like being surrounded by magpies. All the questions, all the comments, all the interest. And the constant tapping echoing around her as people used the machine to unimaginatively engrave their names on a slip of paper. The gasps, sighs, or giggles that followed.
She wanted to declare the writing machine a triumph but thus far no one had indicated a true desire to invest. It was being met with mixed reviews.
Fascinating.
Too impersonal. You’ll get no sense of the writer’s personality or character. Everyone’s letters will look the same.
Always legible, you mean, she’d wanted to shout.
What if it breaks?
Then you fix it as you would a carriage axle or a rip in your clothing.
The art of penmanship will go by the wayside. Why should a person learn to form letters when a simple tap will produce one?
No more ink on fingers. Wouldn’t that be nice?
I like the motion of dipping a pen in an inkwell and applying it to paper. I imagine myself an artist.
You can have both: pen and writing machine. You don’t have to kill one to make use of the other.
You could write a letter to someone you admire in secret, and they’d never be able to guess your identity.
Exactly. Our letters would all look the same.
Sam was leaving the fielding of most of the questions to her, especially the ones that involved explaining exactly how it worked. He was comfortable assuring people that if they didn’t like having the flowers adorning the sides of the machine, they could have a special one designed with a dog or a cat or nothing at all. And he certainly liked telling the ladies how simple it was to use as though they hadn’t the wherewithal to manage something complicated. His comments on that matter irked her. The machine equalized men and women—one wasn’t better than the other at using it. It simply provided a faster means for communicating.
However, when the first chords of a violin filled the air—no doubt her mother growing bored and signaling that the dancing portion of the night was to begin—most of the crowd drifted away as if carried out to sea on the tide.
A few stragglers remained to study the machine more thoroughly. King, Knight, and Bishop, alongwith their wives, wandered over to give it a slow perusal. She wondered where Rook was. It had been reassuring to meet his gaze as he stood in the audience. She’d spent much of her life in solitude or quiet corners examining objects, figuring out the intricacies of them.
But people, she’d never quite come to understand. They were more complicated, and they didn’t always work as they were supposed to. They uttered something mean when they should say something kind. They went one way when they should go the other. They didn’t all enjoy the same books, or plays, or weather. She loved the rain. Its constant patter against a window was comforting, helped her to think. Sam wanted sunshine and always complained when rain kept him indoors.
But she wanted to understand Rook because she thought he might be the most complicated of all. Or at least her feelings toward him were.
Sam was regaling those who were studying the machine. He didn’t need her any longer. He’d become quite adept at avoiding any technical questions.
She required a moment away from the madness of the crush of people who were now dancing, walking about, or partaking of the refreshments. Stepping off the stage, she suddenly found herself facing Lord Camberley.
“That was fascinating,” he said. “Do you think it’ll bring in a good income?”
Because that’s what he wanted, what he needed, the reason he spoke with her and brought her flowers. Not because she was special to him but because in her he saw the potential to refill his coffers. “I hope so.”
“Hope is not a strategy.”
“It’s all I can offer at the moment. I sense a megrim coming on. If you’ll excuse me, I just need a moment of quiet.”
“Of course. Shall I sign your dance card before you go?”
She didn’t know if she’d be returning. “I don’t have one at the moment, but I’ll sign your name to the last waltz, shall I?”
“Splendid.” Then he was edging past her to talk with Sam.
Avoiding eye contact with anyone else, she skirted around people, grateful to reach the doorway. From there, she headed down the hallway to a door that led outside and into the small garden area where she’d earlier that afternoon taken tea with Lord Camberley. When she reached its end, she glanced back over her shoulder. No one was about. No one had followed. Peace and calm rested on the other side of that door. Solitude.
Strange how when she opened the door and stepped out, she was momentarily saddened to realize she would indeed be alone, that she’d been hoping for the companionship of one, of Rook. Perhaps he’d left already, hadn’t been impressed with the machine. She wanted to share with him the details of it, every nut, bolt, and screw. She suspected he’d find it most boring—but he wouldn’t let on. He’d feign interest and let her speak ad nauseum. She was most true to herself with him. She didn’t have to try to be the perfect daughter to her mother or the perfect sister to her brother. She didn’t have to work to be the perfect legacy to her father.
