Chapter 11- Ad idem
"Of the same mind"
She remained focused on the newspaper until she heard the parlor door close, uninterested in the slightest at the Columbian news this morning. Oh, she prided herself that she could stare unflinching, gloat even, when a man was hurt by her coolness, but she could not bear to look at Robert, even his retreating back, for fear of seeing a slump in his shoulders. He was not just a man, the very reason she feigned disinterest in his request to go to his final fitting. She needed an excuse to slip out unnoticed and purchase him a gift for Christmas. What was a little bit of suffering for the sake of pleasure? It was like pulling a tooth or plucking a thorn. But he was not so innocent as well; what was his excuse for solitude? It was in her interest to go with him to the tailor's and see him in full regalia, but she would have a whole evening of that, wouldn't she? And she would have him to herself.
Rosalind smirked. Most women loathed to have their brother's hand for the evening, but not she. Invitations for her hand had come in, but they were promptly returned, just like this one under saucer will be. Poor Mr. Whitechurch. She was almost disappointed turning his request down. An artist and young, he was different than the others she'd received; older gentlemen, wealthy gentlemen, men who would speak at her, above her, for her. Instead of honored guest, she would be prized accessory, like some Lady Olivia fending off Orsino and other suitors.
Robert was none of these, of course. He was her equal, always. If anything, he was in danger of becoming her accessory, for this Ball would essentially be his debut in Columbia. For months, she'd smiled sweetly at incessant and quite frankly, nosy questions. 'When might we have the pleasure of your brother's company?' 'How has he taken to the air in Columbia?' 'Has he recovered well?' In some ways, she had such a primitive selfishness, and often enough, an overwhelming possessiveness threatened to take her. Robert was her marvel, her gift, hers alone. And when it wasn't that, she wanted to proclaim his existence, his beauty, his impossibility.
She stood and placed her used teacup in the sink. He was always inciting such conflicting emotions within her, the most current being frustration. She had never had the opportunity to buy a gift for someone other than herself, and with Robert, what they didn't share had been necessity. Music, clothes, even his journal last year was to aid in his recovery. What was she to get him now that he was whole?
The idea of books had been mulling in her mind for some time now. He did so love his Classics. This reality proved he still had much to learn about them; he would appreciate the alternate versions. Her imagination did not skew towards Greek tragedy when she was a girl so much, unless one counted Narcissus. After her dream, her mother, perhaps trying to disillusion her, warned her with the myth, of its moral. While Mother was fearing of God, conscientious of vanity and all its snares, she had pursued the flitting form for answers, sought Ovid, and Caravaggio, and Poussin until she had made it tangible, corporeal, a form that she could reflect back at. What earthly treasure did she now seek to place a smile about his lips so she could do the same? That was today's adventure.
But first, to make another man frown.
She went to their desk near the stairs and fetched their finest paper from the third drawer—in need of replenishing after the constant usage leading to the Ball.
'Dear Mr. Whitechurch. I am pleased to have received your invitation, but unfortunately, I must decline…'
Yes, yes, she could write the words in her sleep now. Hopefully, and etiquette demanded that it be, this would be the last of the invitations. When she opened the bottom drawer to put away the inkwell, one of their journals jostled open from the movement and the pages caught her attention. Again, the margins were filled with drawings, and she took the journal out to look at them more closely. The front door opened a moment later, however, and she immediately thought Robert had returned, but then the rustle of a dress could be heard, and she knew Gwendolyn had returned from her usual errands to the bookstores. Excellent. She would know the climate of the shops.
Rosalind placed the journal back, sealed the letter, and grabbed her coat from the hanger near the door.
"Ah, Gwendolyn," she started, finding her sorting books on the front desk. "How was the selection this week?"
"Mild, Madame. The shipments from the mainland are still backed up from the storms a few weeks ago. Only one came in, but I managed to get a few titles," she said, gesturing to the books.
Her eyes swept down the spines, always enjoying the neat lettering. There were a few novels; The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, The Jungle Book, and non-fiction; The History of Trade Unionism, On the Content and Objects of Presentations, The Human Drift. Most were from England, and she was impressed with that, because she had not instructed Gwendolyn to look for such books. But another stack caught her attention, and she was perplexed by the separation; The Story of a Modern Woman, Wood Beyond the World, People of the Mist, 2894. All appeared to be novels.
Gwendolyn rushed to separate the stack from the rest. "Oh, these are books I purchased for myself."
Rosalind studied her for a moment. "Do you read many books, Gwendolyn?" She recalled her initial amazement at the wall of books throughout their house. Naturally there were more, but their more delicate literature was on the second floor, far from prying eyes.
"Yes."
"Good," she said, and Gwendolyn smiled. "Although," she continued, "The number of books one reads is not so much important as the subject of such literature."
The words slipped out of her as it would have her mother, but she did believe it to be true for the most part. She would find no interest in someone who read fifty books on tailoring, but if someone had read just one of her books, well then that was something entirely different. If Gwendolyn enjoyed reading, she did not mind lending books to her. At least one other woman in Columbia would be enlightened.
"And do you appreciate music, Madame?"
She inclined her head. "Come again?"
"I hear music playing often. Do you and Mr. Lutece enjoy it?"
"Yes, we do."
The question, odd as it was in the subject of their discussion, was direct, mirroring; drawn from observation and not opinion. A curious person interested in her life as madame scientist had much more intrusive inquiries-parents, schooling, finance, matters of the heart, as if they could pinpoint exactly what pushed her into her lifestyle.
In her time here, Gwendolyn had never asked such questions as previous hires had, though she was never out of inquiries. Always a 'Have I reset the meters properly, Madame?' or 'Shall I pull the files on last week's readings for comparison, Madame?' Very keen, very perceptive. And now that she had a spare moment to consider the girl beyond her immediate skillset, it came to her attention that she had never cared to put more thought into why the niece of a Founder was eager to work here, was so proficient in her work.
In truth, Rosalind had not expected her to last this long in their employ, and really it was Robert who had suggested the entire arrangement. Where she saw an unnecessary nuisance and liability, he saw more time to themselves now that they were freed from the mundane responsibilities. And, he had said so persuasively, this was a laboratory, and as Madame Scientist of earth's greatest marvel, she was entitled to assistants.
Regrettably, she could not bring up to him that as Madame scientist, she had grown accustomed to working alone, relying on herself, indeed, maintaining that even when Robert crossed over in the vain conundrum that was their own, but perhaps she had made a hasty judgment-she recognized and awarded talent and skill, after all. She considered the books again, what their number and context could reveal.
"You have a good eye, an open mind. What books capture your attention?"
Gwendolyn stood straighter in her chair. "Well, I've always enjoyed novels."
"Any in particular?"
"The Modern Prometheus."
Rosalind arched an eyebrow. "Very interesting." Once, she had considered the novel to be despairing and was not altogether too sympathetic of the gentleman scientist whose life spiraled from self-made disaster. Since Robert had entered her life, however, she did not hold to that feeling much any longer. She focused instead on the implication of power and responsibility and of maker and creation. She kept her bearded monster sated with visions and prophecy. Or was she herself both maker and creation, providing a unique companion to spend her days with? Oh Robert would enjoy that new analogy.
"I do enjoy other books," Gwendolyn continued. "I've read both of yours. I don't pretend to understand it all, but it is interesting, and I think it's important, considering where we live."
Rosalind leaned on the counter, her focus trained on Gwendolyn again. What a very interesting girl.
"And what of this?" She slid The Story of a Modern Woman across the table. "Is this frequent subject matter? Or new interest?"
"Frequent. Though my Uncle would prefer it not," she said quickly in the same breath. Rosalind would have raised another eyebrow for further elucidation, but the girl continued without any prodding. "He sees my arrival in Columbia as an opportunity for a daughter."
"You don't?" The relationship between their assistant and the tobacco magnate Founder had never been discussed beyond what was obvious; so it was not as close as she and Robert suspected.
"I prefer my independence, however difficult it may be."
"We would often be sorry if our wishes were granted." Her mother had uttered the saying much to her, but again, she reversed the narrow condescension and used it as a a woman would understand truly what independence was and what it cost, as she was so constantly reminded of even now in her marvel city.
"You must think me ungrateful," she said, but looked quite unrepentant.
"Quite the contrary. Independence is a wonderful thing, but what accompanies it is often enough to make you question your decision. It is not so easy being a woman." Oh it was not so easy. She had never spoken of it to anyone, not even Robert, though he lived it through his dissonance. Yes, America was much more allowing in matters of women than England was, but Columbia? She was its Mother. Even then, children did not always follow the fifth commandment.
Gwendolyn dipped her head in agreement that could have only come from experience. "I was lucky enough to dodge the factories and worked in my father's firm even after he passed."
Yes, it was fortunate, though she suspected it was more out of charity from her father's business partner than her actual capability. A woman in a law firm? The only thing worse was a woman in medicine or science. Still, that explained her pragmatism, her discretion, and she recalled the issue of office experience when they interviewed her. Perhaps she had remained employed for her abilities and connections.
"Then you came here." Personal matters such as these hardly ever concerned her, but then again, it was less occurring still, that she encountered an independent woman.
"I was hesitant of the offer at first, but a city in the sky put there by a woman?" She glanced at Rosalind quickly before finding sudden interest in the papers on the desk. "I couldn't refuse."
She was not vain, in the sense that she demanded praise constantly, but she was immensely pleased. Whether she wanted or not, many thought to share their choices for moving to Columbia with her; fresh air, the marvel, the novelty, the new offerings, but never, never had anyone come to Columbia because of her, what she had done as a woman. She looked at Gwendolyn Marlowe with new intent.
"And now that you are here, what plans have you for the future? -Not that we have plans to remove you any time soon," Rosalind clarified, seeing her expression grow to uncertainty. "We have grown accustomed to your fine work. Which is why, I ask. You are very astute, very uniquely skilled."
"You are too kind Madame, but I suspect I have a tobacco company to help run."
"But that's not what you imagine."
Gwendolyn looked at her plainly and shrugged. "I could do it for a time, but business? Tobacco? I would fall into boredom soon enough."
Such a career would provide stability, all the good that would do. She would not have control over the business, despite helping run it at the expense of her own interests. Society stressed and demanded so much from a woman it left her nothing but a puppet to be used. It was a shame bright young women were force to dim their resolve for sustenance, for a husband. Perhaps humanity would be out of this stifling age and pushed forward with innovation if it only considered that extra appendages and muscle did not falsely determine allowances and superiority.
"And if not the trade, what then?" She pressed further, intent to give whatever suppressed desire Gwendolyn had the acknowledgment it needed. If not, then it might be lost forever, pushed aside for security and acceptance. There was interest, there was drive, but support? Even she did not have that until she had proved herself.
Her shoulders lifted again, hesitant. The same hesitance she'd once adopted when people tried to change her mind about science.
"Surely you must want to pursue something. Actress, shopgirl, housewife-"
A shudder, the slightest of any, accompanied her thinning lips. "Archivist," she corrected, and Rosalind grinned delightedly. "Or historian. I would do more with my life than sit by a fire."
"And what, in history and archiving, has enticed you?"
"Knowledge," she said. A glint had manifested in her eye and her smile returned. "Keeping and minding all that, such a great position."
Indeed it was. "Knowledge itself is power."
"Francis Bacon."
Rosalind smiled, pleased again.
"It's encouraging to know that the Greeks made the god of wisdom and knowledge a woman."
"Encouraging yes, but it was men who made her, and men who would be quick to show that such power in a woman's hands is folly." She would make her thoughts on the matter known in full another time.
"Well, I still have much to learn." There was disappointment but none too much.
"The most important thing you can learn, perhaps you've already, is that this is a man's world. And they, however modern the world is becoming, do not appreciate that women have opinions, however exceptionally bright she may be."
Across the desk, Rosalind witnessed her face harden for a moment.
"But if chivalry is expected," Gwendolyn started, "Shouldn't that be the best opportunity to display it? To acknowledge a woman."
"Chivalry," Rosalind clarified very carefully, "Is an establishment protecting a woman from the superior strength of the male sex." The definition she had read in a book on etiquette once remained with her clearly. "An excuse to use condescension as a means to protect."
"So, having established themselves as our benefactors and protectors from external forces, determining even our thoughts and interests is considered acceptable?"
The way she said it, with such reserved indignation, had Rosalind pleased once more.
"If you mean respectable then say so,'" she said and Gwendolyn nodded in understanding of the correction.
She was a bright girl she concluded, though one steeped in pleasantries and etiquette, as was to be expected, but if she were pushed, then her true intentions and opinions emerged. And she was not intimidated. Could that be a result of her experience? Or living under a red-blooded tobacco man such as Charles Marlowe? Either way, it was a trait to keep in mind.
"Well, Gwendolyn, I fear I've taken up your time." Indeed, Robert must have reached Hudson's by now and the hour was running thin.
"Oh no, Madame. I enjoy conversing with you. I've merely the reports from the Winter team to sort this morning."
Ah yes, she was expecting those. The numbers were improving every week. "Are they all in?"
"Still waiting on Mr. Eames and Mr. Peterson."
"Has Eames been the last to turn his work in?"
"Yes, but always still a day ahead of the deadline."
"Not a problem. He has always been very careful about the accuracy of his work. Frequently he is the last to complete things."
"And Mr. Sinclair's is always the first one in," Gwendolyn added cheerily.
Rosalind inclined her head. "His enthusiasm is quite contagious." As was hers when Leander was mentioned in any vein. Perhaps she might invite Mr. Sinclair over under the pretext of his exemplary work and simultaneously conduct another observation.
Even now, Gwendolyn tapped her fingertips and glanced about furtively. She deflected to the envelope in her hand. "I can send that off for you if you like."
"Thank-you, but I was just heading out." She made to move to the front door but paused. Truly she was at a lost when shopping, and she cared to see the extent of Gwendolyn's observations.
"Actually, I intended to purchase a gift for Robert-a book- but since you've informed me of the backlog, I'm at an impasse. I'm familiar with him perhaps too much to know what I might get him. Suggestions?"
"What have you gotten him in the past? Might I ask."
"Er, practical things. But I'd like indulge this year." Disconcerting how a simple question from a front girl could catch her off guard, but how might that look to reveal that she had never gotten Robert a gift?
"May I suggest things he enjoys? Or things he does in his spare moments?" She offered.
He enjoyed what she enjoyed, then she though immediately of the sketches in their journals. How often did this occur? While her thoughts were filled with satisfaction at narrowing it down, it was concerning that the amount of time it took her to notice it had been great. Before she had noticed, she was already in the parlor, and she thought maybe she should offer the girl her thanks.
Gwendolyn turned slightly in her chair to face her inquiringly.
"Enjoy your books," she said, and for once, the pleasantry she dispensed was genuine.
Returning to their desk, she found the journal where she had left it and studied it more closely. The workbook was full of early infusion processes and theories and they'd abandoned it when the issue with reactors had occurred alarmingly fast. In the margins, between formulas, were small quick sketches of various things; alembics, their letterhead, their rabbits, but as the later pages no longer had work, the sketches were larger, longer, and she found pages of focused studies. Eyes, mouths, noses, hands, and a delicacy that suggested they were hers.
Her fingers touched at the lines, mindful not to smear them. He had such fine skill, clearly indicative of instruction. At one point their skill must have been identical, but she'd sacrificed her talent for fear that her family might distract her with it in lieu of her stronger proclivities. Better their daughter an artist than a scientist. At least Robert had pursued it. He tended to see the better qualities of a person quicker than she might.
She turned the page, finding a long sketch of herself. Hair in a loose updo, she looked to be repairing something, probably a magnetic coil if she recalled properly. Despite her very casual dress-down, Robert had captured a very intent opinion, and the great detail in her expression, her lips, the curve of her neck, did not go unnoticed.
To call the flush she felt flattery would be incorrect, because a warmth spread through her at the thought that he had observed her with the fullest of attention, the most careful of studies. If she had but glanced up from her own intensity, she would have caught him at his most intense and committed to memory his expression.
Closing the journal more delicately, Rosalind placed it back in the recesses of the desk, knowing with certainty what she would get Robert.
She took her coat once more from the hanger and donned it.
"If Robert returns before I do, could you tell him I went to send off a letter?"
"Of course, Madame."
There was, to her knowledge, an art store near Magical Melodies, and the location was convenient as Robert wouldn't be heading in that direction. They'd passed the art shop frequently enough, but never stopped to enter. The assumption that they had no business there came from her observation. He never expressed interest, and she'd settled on the fact that they'd both cast aside their artistic talents in lieu of focusing on science; it would seem she was wrong. But the annoyance of a fallacy was not so severe if it procured such a delightful result.
Rosalind's lips pressed together in a smile she did not successfully contain. Usually open expressions invited many on the street to converse with her beyond simple pleasantries, but she allowed this. Her mood was excellent this morning, even if the weather was mildly unfavorable. The skies were clear, but she was ready to shake the winter chill that still lingered in the shade.
Tucked in the shadow of Magical Melodies, Sewell Art Supplies was rather modest across from Memorial Gardens, but a loyal customer base that was formed of both hobbyists and professional artists kept it busy enough. There were a few she kept an eye on occasionally, Mr. Pyle, Mr. Abbey, Mr. Whitechurch, and Mr. Pennell, though her notice of his work was Comstock's doing, and he was quickly becoming Columbia's resident artist.
She wrapped her gloved fingers around the ornate wrought iron door handle, the cold seeping through the leather, and entered the shop. The interior was small with three easels in the display windows, and the walls were stocked with brushes, containers of paint, and sticks of charcoal.
"Madame Lutece! Good morning." The surprise at her visit was evident.
A large window was directly behind the counter, back-lighting whoever stood behind it and she frowned momentarily at the disadvantage. She navigated a few steps to a corner of the shop to correct it and see her greeter properly.
Donning a polite smile, Rosalind nodded. "Good morning, Mr. Sewell."
"What can I help you with today?"
"Your finest sketchbook, sir," she said, removing her gloves.
Mr. Sewell's smile widened under his pale mustache and he gestured to the wall behind her. "These came in yesterday. I was worried the storms would delay them, but they arrived just in time."
At eye level, reflecting the sunlight that came through the window, were five elegantly bound sketchbooks, and she reached for one.
"Beautiful aren't they? I've got one ready as a gift for my granddaughter."
She touched at the gold inlay on the cover and felt the velvet paper. "Yes." The deep crimson leather was exquisite, the same color and similar enough design as the walls in their home. Robert would surely love this. She was already imagining the subtle change in his features when they softened.
"The tooth of the paper holds graphite and india ink extremely well, and takes to charcoal easily. Whichever your preferred medium."
He only worked in graphite as far as she knew, but she'd like to see him work in charcoal, work with his hands, like when he tinkered with their machinery and his fingers were blackened by oil and metal. "I'd like to purchase some charcoal as well."
"Of course. I have some kits available that accommodate an artist's needs."
"Splendid. I'll take one in addition."
He moved to the opposite side of the store, a few steps really, and selected a neatly wrapped hessian cloth bundle. "Will that be everything, Madame?"
"For today, yes." She hoped to bring Robert along and have him choose whatever he wanted. Money was no longer a concern, and for him, she did not mind spending any amount. He was still in some ways, mindful of his previous situation in his universe, and very careful about arrears.
At the counter, Mr. Sewell untied the bundle and unrolled it, inspecting each utensil's condition with fine delicate hands. He listed each one for her in a very gentle tone, not condescending, reminding her together with his nearly white hair, of her old chemistry professor at Girton.
When he was pleased with everything, he rolled it back up. "Will this be a gift?"
"Yes," Rosalind said, and he took out a narrow pine box with a cover that slid closed to place the sketchbook and bundle in, which he then wrapped in brown paper and twine. She signed a check for payment and Mr. Sewell smiled at her departure.
"Thank you very much, Madame Lutece. You have a pleasant day."
"You too, Mr. Sewell." She was feeling exceptionally good this morning now that she had completed her tasks, and most importantly, gotten something for Robert. For the first time in a very long while, she was looking forward to the holiday, to sharing it with someone she cared for. Even the ball the evening after next had her interest. It did not escape her of course that Robert was the catalyst- he always was. Deep within herself she believed they were bound by strongest strands of existence. They were composed of the same elements, the same thoughts, so that her mind was linked to his and touched in the mirrors of their dreams before they could break the looking glass of reality. She thought longer on the metaphor. Perhaps she might consider the subject of dreams and thoughts and universes in a voxaphone later.
Out on the street once more, she heard a lively melody coming from the music shop next door that pulled her out of her musings. It would seem the other Mr. Fink was in the midst of his own genius again. The tune was actually quite pleasant, though something more inclined towards Robert's tastes. If Albert decided to release it on record, as was becoming the case quite often, she'd buy one for him. And if there was no occasion for it, she'd make one up.
Still, as the melody grew fainter and she returned the short distance to her home, she considered the influx of ingenuity and production of both brothers. The connection was there, she just had to find it. It was frustrating that it eluded her for several months already.
"Good morning, Madame," an apple vendor, Mr. Nettles, greeted as she passed, and the pomes he stood by were enticing enough this morning to move to the forefront of her mind.
"Could you part with three today, Mr. Nettles?"
"Always, Madame," he said, selecting his three best fruit. "These bushels only survived the frost because of you and Mr. Lutece's fine work."
There had been no direct intervention on their part, but she would take the credit for the change in weather, and she did so with a small smile.
"You are welcome to more, of course. No charge." He handed the selection to her after he had wrapped them in a cloth.
"Three will suffice today. Thank you." She bid him farewell, as did he, and she continued on her way.
The curve of the street brought her to the plaza outside her home and the familiarity of it returned her thoughts to Robert and the prized box she held.
A/n: Thank you so very much for being patient. This chapter was difficult to write. Don't forget commentary is available at Meteor'a Tumblr. Check my profile for the link.
Things to ponder:
-Ha, so our ginger scientists are huge nerds and finally got each other gifts. What do you think their reactions will be on Christmas?
-And finally! The Christmas ball will be next chapter. What will happen?