The Technologists

  He accelerated his pace. He had nothing on him for anyone to steal, but he also couldn’t defend himself from an attack by thieves, not with this hand, and that had made him see villains in thin air ready to take what little belonged to him. At least he still had his speed—he used it now—and his knowledge of the short, confusing streets that knotted the center of Boston together.

  He rounded a corner and fled down a flight of old wooden steps. These led into a dark alley that would not be found on any city maps, because no one would wish to find it.

  Once in the safety of the hidden alleyway, he realized how loudly his heart was thumping at his chest and tried to quiet it by taking a deep breath. This wouldn’t do, this behavior. Not for a lad known for his brave and adventurous spirit.

  “Blast it all!” he cried despondently to himself, then sat down on the bottom step and broke into tears.

  When he had gathered himself and stood to go, a figure cloaked by the darkness appeared at the top stair. Theo jumped back into the alley. The figure took the next step down, and Theo stumbled back some more. Then the figure took another step, and so did Theo. The man was covered by a thick hood, and only when Theo ran out of space behind him in the alley could he make out the alarming face, lined in scars and dead tissue.

  “Why, it’s you!” Theo cried out in joy. “Flesh and blood! Mr. Cheshire, sir!”

  There was no smile on the other face, though he did lower his hood. “You recognize me,” he stated flatly.

  “ ’Course, sir! Why, I always prided myself on recognizing anyone, anywhere, who ever patronized Front Merchants’, and to greet them accordingly! But I ’eard you positively died!”

  “Not yet. Theophilus, there is a little matter of business I’m here to discuss.”

  “Sir?” Theo asked, his fear renewed by the icy tone.

  “Seems you’ve been using my name freely to some nosy interlopers.”

  “Interred lopers,” Theo repeated confusedly. “Why, I told some collegies that you were a great stockbroker, and a great man—that’s all.”

  “You see, I have a new task in life ahead of me now, boy.”

  “Might I be of help, sir? I can come with you. Why, I can find those collegies again, and pretend to be their friend for you. Find out everything they know.” It was almost like being a bank porter again—almost.

  Cheshire’s eyes traveled over him in a leisurely sweep. “Was your hand injured that day in the bank?”

  “Sir,” Theo nodded. “But not too bad, I vow it! Why, it’ll be back to normal and better in no time at all. Already on its way! Could be in a pugilist match, if I had to. Just trying to keep my chin up in the meantime.”

  With a swift and powerful grip, Cheshire clutched Theo’s lame hand and squeezed. “Normal! Misshapen and disgusting, boy, that’s what it is! We both are what we are—but I plan to do something about it. I am to have my proper revenge, and for that I must operate in the shadows.”

  “What are you doing, Mr. Cheshire?” Theo asked, his body trembling out of control as he cringed in pain. “But I only told them you were a great man!”

  The man had removed a dagger from his coat. He now gripped Theo’s other arm by the wrist and positioned the blade over it.

  “Mr. Cheshire!” Theo cried.

  “You’re working with those collegies, aren’t you? Trying to sabotage my work!”

  “No!” wailed Theo, struggling to twist away from the knife.

  “You’ve said enough, and you know too much! Let’s see if you can learn the art of being quiet once you lose some fingers on your good hand! Then your friends will be next.”

  Theo screamed at the top of his lungs, but the sound of his terror was drowned out by the heartless roar of the city.

  XXVIII

  Steam at Rest

  WALKING HAND IN HAND with her friends under a shared umbrella, Agnes Turner kept her eyes fixed on the paths of the Common, despite the fact that she knew he would still be occupied at the Institute. Though he had taken her hand but once, in the library at Temple Place at a time of such terrible crisis, and took her arm at the harbor, in the luxury of her private thoughts he had held her and kissed her again and again. She would look into his close-set, piercing green eyes. During these mental flights, she did not merely share that sentimental contact with Mr. Mansfield—with Marcus—she grew fearless and independent, a leader of her own free will and that of others, an exemplar of self-possession and competence, like him.

  She had told not a single one of the other serving girls—not even her cousin Lilly, though it took all her self-discipline and strength not to when they shared their meals in the kitchen at the bottom of the Rogers house, the girls all chattering over one another. How it would have stopped the conversation cold! But it would have been a great risk. Lilly did gossip so much to anyone who would listen, and, besides that, Agnes could not help but wonder whether Lilly favored Mr. Mansfield for herself … But if Agnes put out of her mind all boys on whom Lilly had trained one flirtatious brown eye … Well, that was an uncharitable way to think of Lilly, who was decent enough, even if she bore the predominant passion of envy.

  Agnes did tell one person her secret feelings: Josephine, her smallest sister, who was only ten and could not understand the affairs of a girl of seventeen. She had to tell someone, and Josephine was safe, and sworn to secrecy. “If you ever whisper it to another soul, I shall never talk to you again, dear Josie.”

  “Never, dear Aggie! You love him, don’t you, Aggie?” Josephine asked later.

  “A little girl, to ask a thing like that! I hardly know the man. You read too many novels,” Agnes answered, sounding like one of the nuns at their church or Lilly. But then … “I think I could love him one day.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because, Josie, it does not feel I met him, but as though I know him by inspiration, like a song on the piano you have learned but need not even try to remember the next time you sit to play it. He has no one to fight his battle, no one like Papa he can trust. But he trusted me.”

  Do I have pride in thinking myself special above others? That was one of the questions the girls were directed to ask themselves in their religious instruction by the priest after mass on Sundays, and now Agnes thought about it in relation to her new friend. She did feel—could not help feeling—she deserved the attention of Marcus Mansfield more than Lilly or the beautiful rival at the opera. Did that make her prideful? She was not like the other girls, who would light up at any man they saw, even a new priest at church. The governesses and child nurses had more experience with romance than the maids or kitchen girls, though usually not much of it. From the very first time he spoke to her, even in brief conversation, Marcus demonstrated a sincere interest in her thoughts and concerns, not just in the shape of her lips or the fashion of her hair, and for that alone she could almost give her heart to him.

  “What do you think about it, Aggie?” Lilly asked now.

  “I’m sorry,” Agnes answered.

  “Weren’t you listening to Mary? Why, your cheeks are bright red. Where is your head?” Lilly asked with suspicion as they continued walking together through the Common. “What do you think about buying some candy from that apple woman by the old tree before we must return for curfew?”

  Agnes thought exactly nothing about the matter, but consented to the idea, which sent Lilly and Mary away on their mission.

  As Agnes lagged behind, a piece of paper glided over her head, twirled in the air gracefully, flipped over, and landed right at her feet. It was no mere slip of paper, but a carefully constructed paper dart. Her heart beat quickly and, waiting until her friends were entirely occupied with selecting their candy, she unfolded it. There were no words, only a simple drawing of a deer. She looked around but could see no one familiar, and put the paper in her pocket.

  “Aggie, do come here. Which candy do you want?”

  She called out her answer. Confirming that her friends were still occupied, Agnes began
to walk backward slowly. She felt a few drops of harder rain on her bonnet. Finally, she broke into a run, which was daring in itself considering the great length of her skirts, and was satisfied she had escaped the watch of either of her companions.

  Turning toward the Tremont Street side of the Common, she passed the old cemetery and entered the deer park, where two of the braver animals came to the gate to nuzzle her. She knelt to pet their strong necks and ears, and told them how lovely they were. Then, the raindrops stopped just for Agnes and the two deer, and a shadow circled her. When she rose, she found herself standing inches away from Marcus Mansfield—his smell alerted her first. It was like the oil and smoke of a machine, clean and plain.

  “How did you know where I would be?” she asked.

  “You said you were only to be given work until three o’clock on the days the Rogers family was in Philadelphia. I watched until you left from the back door, but needed to speak with you alone. Did the other girls see where you went?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think so.” She was out of breath, not from running, she realized, but from seeing him. “No, definitely not. I find I can run better than I thought in this uniform, if motivated.”

  “Good, let us both run,” he said. He held her hand.

  “Mr. Mansfield! What are you doing?”

  Marcus kept his umbrella over both of them. After passing into the Public Garden, they slowed to a brisk walk and crossed onto Boylston Street, one of the avenues that ran through the stark, but oddly beautiful, Back Bay.

  “What does all this mean?” Agnes demanded, stopping short at the front steps of the Institute.

  “You said you always wanted to see inside.” He marched to the top of the steps.

  “I cannot go!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am not permitted! I am not a student here, for one thing!”

  “But I am,” Marcus said, climbing back down and taking both her hands in his as he coaxed her up. “Trust me. Do you?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, fixing her stance. “But I wonder if I should, after seeing you at the opera.”

  “I had to accompany a friend,” Marcus said sheepishly. “Hammie—I mean,” he added.

  “And the lovely lady? She would certainly turn the head of any college man.”

  “My head was already turned, Miss Agnes. As soon as I saw you there.”

  She gave a skeptical hmm as reply but allowed him to guide her up the steps.

  “I wonder if that is not unwise,” trilled a feminine voice, as a figure shielded by a black umbrella approached the front of the Institute.

  “Lilly! What are you doing here?” Agnes asked, unable to mask her alarm.

  “Miss Maguire,” Marcus said, touching the brim of his cap.

  Lilly walked past the front steps, then back again, studying the place like a surveyor and savoring the moment. “Mr. Mansfield, understand that maids in respectable homes in Boston are not to be seen with any men without an escort. If the Rogers family heard of it, well, I am certain there would be consequences. Aggie, when I noticed you were not behind us, I located you from a distance. Then I followed. I hope you appreciate the trouble I went to on your behalf, cousin.”

  “Of course, Lilly, thank you,” said Agnes, despite an almost overwhelming urge to push Lilly into the mud. Still, Lilly was right, obviously; Agnes should not be there, especially not alone with a man.

  “Well, since we are all here, are we to have a tour inside? How novel,” Lilly said. “Lead the way, Mr. Mansfield, so I can return Miss Turner to Temple Place before our absence is reported.”

  Marcus glanced at Agnes for help, but what could she really say? She gave him an apologetic shrug and a shake of her head.

  “Ladies, please,” said Marcus cheerfully, hiding any annoyance he must have felt at the unwanted addition. They went past him through the front door. As they passed through the vestibule and lower hall and entered the stairwell, Agnes was both relieved and startled to find the building seemingly unoccupied.

  “Where is everybody?” she asked.

  “The whole college had an excursion to the Navy Yard.”

  “Even Miss Swallow?”

  “I should not like to be the man who tells Miss Swallow she could not come on an excursion. She is with them. The building is entirely our domain for the next two hours, except perhaps for Mr. Fogg, the janitor, but he and I have a good understanding.”

  “Surely you’ll be missed from the excursion, and reprimanded?”

  “My friend Bob has a scheme to ensure my absence will not be noticed. Are you ladies tiring of the stairs?”

  “Not in the least, mister,” Lilly insisted, increasing her pace.

  Upon reaching the second floor, they were taken through one of the chemical laboratories. Agnes felt more at ease with each step while Lilly’s face grew tense, as if she were surrounded by monsters. Marcus cautioned the visitors not to touch anything, though Lilly seemed intent on picking up every glass jar and decanter and studying the mixtures, declaring them, by turns, queer or ugly. She acted as a child rather than chaperon. Her evaluations became more strident as Marcus and Agnes became increasingly engrossed in their own conversation.

  When Marcus was showing Agnes how the properties of carbon in illuminating gas could be exhibited by a candle placed inside a glass cylinder that was equipped with a small chimney, his steady voice was interrupted by a piercing shriek.

  “Why, Lilly, what is it?” Agnes asked.

  Lilly was studying her reflection in a glass container that she then dropped and shattered. “Oh, Aggie, I’m … I’m … I’m a Negress!” she said, breaking into tears and throwing herself onto Agnes’s chest.

  After Agnes convinced her to move her hands, Lilly’s face was revealed to be entirely black.

  “Lilly, what happened?”

  “I don’t know! Why, he did it, to rid himself of me and be with you alone for improper purposes!” she cried.

  Marcus walked along the shelf behind Lilly and, after examining it, picked up a glass decanter that had a loose cover.

  “Miss Maguire,” he said, “do you use pearl powder in your cosmetics?”

  Lilly nodded through her tears.

  “Pearl powder,” he continued, “contains bismuth, and sulphuretted hydrogen turns the oxide of bismuth black. Did you put this decanter near your face?”

  “I wanted to see what it smelled like,” Lilly said. “Oxide of bismuth … why, you are some kind of wizard, Mansfield, and now I’ve been horribly disfigured! Turn me white again this instant! Get me a towel, some water!”

  “I’m afraid that wouldn’t help. Only time will undo the effects, Miss Maguire. By tomorrow morning—”

  “The morning! Am I to spend the night as a darky until then?”

  “Oh, Lilly, you’ll be all right, I promise!” said Agnes, though in the back of her mind she could not help feeling a little pleased at her comeuppance.

  Marcus pulled a rope to call for Darwin Fogg, who promised to bring the stricken girl home in the Institute’s carriage. Free of their interloper, Agnes looked at Marcus and they both exploded in guilty laughter.

  Marcus brought Agnes into a room with large arched windows on each wall and a marvelous variety of alien contraptions on tables and platforms. He explained that, when it was finished, this would be the first laboratory of physics in the entire country, and would raise experimental science to new heights.

  “What is that?” she asked of a machine that had two large glass plates with brass poles coming out horizontally, all mounted on a wood base.

  “It is an electrical machine,” Marcus said. “A very good one, we think. When the handle is turned, the plates generate electricity against the rubber pieces, and the brass extensions become prime conductors. Oh, and come see this one.”

  He brought her over to the phonautograph machine he and Edwin had assembled and began to turn the handle, his pride evident. “You see, the trumpet on this end is a device that
captures sounds, then there is a type of stylus that records a visual impression of every vibration on this membrane below—it can be a voice speaking, or someone singing, or the sounds of freshmen boots trying to leave a classroom at the same time the sophomores are trying to enter. Even the air.”

  “The air! What a fantastic idea. To capture the air.”

  “It is a dream,” he said, “that this discovery might one day replace all forms of stenography and allow us a sort of photograph of sound to reproduce each person’s particular tones.”

  “Imagine being able to register, say, the voice of Jenny Lind for our children’s generation!”

  A smile crept over his face. The words our children, and their unintended connotation, hung over her. She bit her lip and wondered whether she should apologize, but he gallantly moved on without a fuss. “You know, Mr. Mansfield, I had heard your name before I ever met you.”

  “Had you?”

  “Indeed. Soon after I began at my position, I overheard the professor speaking of you to a caller from New York who was asking about the students at the college. He said, ‘Marcus Mansfield is Tech.’ That you were one never expected to come this far, not expected to thrive, yet you were doing so.”

  “I only pray it is true. Thank you for telling me that. Here,” said Marcus. He handed her a piece of thin, membranelike black paper with white lines that moved in curves across the length.

  “What is it?”

  “That is our conversation just now—you see, there are hundreds or even thousands of vibrations to every species of sound. Now, since you’ve spoken of wishing to see more of science, I thought we could have a demonstration on the electrical plate machine.”

  “Oh, please!”

  Marcus showed her two figurines that he had brought, sculpted by Frank during their time in prison, of a young man and woman. He placed them on a metallic plate, with another plate suspended above them from the prime conductor of the electrical machine. When he turned the machine, the two figures were drawn upward to the plate above them, then toward each other, then back down, and up again, all while moving around each other in a dance.