All Men of Genius

XIV.



ASHTON Adams, the real Ashton Adams, had had a wonderful week. He had attended four poetry readings and two séances, as well as an extraordinary art exhibit showing exclusively paintings of young men bathing. He had even met several of the models for the paintings, though he hadn’t yet gone bathing with any of them. He supposed that would have to wait until summer. The house was in order: running nicely, thanks to the cook and the maid and Antony, all of them quite pretty, quite friendly, and quite discreet. He had a plate of cucumber sandwiches, cake, muffins, and bread and butter ready for Violet and Jack. He marveled at how he missed his sister, despite the short time they’d been apart, and how busy he’d kept himself.

In truth, he was also worried. Dressing Violet like a man and teaching her to walk funny had seemed amusing at the time, but a week in, he wondered if she had been, or would be, found out. And what would happen if she was. Society was not forgiving of trespasses like gender reversal. Society was only forgiving of reversals of fortune, and then only when the rich became poor, because that made excellent gossip. To have the poor become rich was rather distressing, and to have a woman become a man was perverse. Ashton himself had once been beaten just for associating with a certain sort of people, though he’d told his father and sister that the attacker had been a thief. He had always believed that the best thing you could do for your life was to live it fearlessly, and so, had done so. But how much worse would it be to see horrible things happen to his sister. He wouldn’t ask her to stop, of course. He would just fret quietly from offstage and hope that she remained at her best.

She did not seem at her best when she came in, though. Ashton could see that as soon as they were through the door. Her skin was pale, her eyes red with dark circles under them. But she was smiling.

“Oh, Ashton,” she said as soon as the door had closed behind her and Jack. She ran to hug her brother. “How I’ve missed you.”

“I can see,” Ashton said, the wind knocked out of him. When Violet had finished squeezing him, he also gave Jack a pat. “You don’t seem to be taking very good care of her,” he said.

“That’s not my fault,” Jack protested. “She’s the one who spends all day in the lab.”

“We all spend all day in the lab,” Violet said. “It’s required.”

“Well, you didn’t have to come drinking with us last night.”

“You begged me to go drinking with you.”

“I think begged is a little strong. We merely requested your ever-charming presence so that we might gaze at your pretty mouth and hear what clever wit next emerged from it. Like when you told us all that so much of who you were depended on where you were—if you were in a bar, you were a bar person; in the street, a street person. Or when you began to imitate how Mrs. Wilks would play the horn.”

“You’ve gone drinking?” Ashton asked.

“She was quite the lushington the other night. But don’t worry, I took her home okay.”

“You took me to the basement to go hunting for vicious killer automata.”

“Well, yeah, but it was at home.”

“You’ve been getting drunk and going hunting for vicious killer automata?” Ashton asked. “That makes my first week in town seem positively dull by comparison.”

“Yes,” Violet said proudly. “The bizarre mechanical creatures of the basement have tried to kill me on more than one occasion.”

“Me, too,” Jack added.

“Why don’t we sit down?” Ashton said, “There are muffins and cucumber sandwiches.”

“You didn’t eat them all already?” Violet asked, walking into the kitchen. She was relieved not to have to concentrate on keeping her voice low, or on how she walked. Who knew that being a gentleman would require as much effort as being a lady? She sat down and helped herself to a muffin.

“So,” Ashton said, eating a cucumber sandwich, “you’ve been chased by murderous automata?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, “during our initiation, and then again when we got knackered and decided to explore the basement to see if Volio’s secret lab was behind the mysterious door.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Volio,” Violet continued, “is a horrid second-year student whose brother was nearly expelled for producing weapons, and who is now blackmailing Miriam because he knows that she goes out with us at night.”

“Who’s Miriam?”

“Cecily’s governess,” Jack said, and sighed, thinking of Cecily.

“He’s in love with Cecily,” Violet said, buttering a muffin. “Cecily is the duke’s cousin and ward.”

“This is very complicated,” Ashton said. “Why don’t you just tell me about your week, from first day to last.”

“Very well,” Violet said, and she did.

A few hours later, Ashton was also a bit paler with dark circles under his eyes.“This is needlessly complex,” he said.

“And that’s just the first week,” Violet said.

“So, will you write a fake love letter from Cecily that will keep Volio appeased?” Jack asked.

“I suppose,” Ashton said. “I do enjoy a good prank, but you must promise me something.”

“What’s that?” Jack asked.

“And Violet, too,” Ashton said, his voice suddenly a shade more serious. Violet nodded. “You must promise me you will stop looking for trouble. The basement sounds dangerous. Stick to your studies. And the drunkenness.”

“But if it is Volio’s lab, then we’ll be able to blackmail him and make him leave Miriam alone!” Violet said.

“And if your bindings come undone while you’re running and he’s watching, then he will blackmail you, too,” Ashton said. “Not to mention the physical peril you put yourself in. Imagine how Father would feel if he returned from America to find his daughter impersonating not only a man, but a dead man. I’m sure for a moment he’d be quite impressed by your incredible impersonation skill on both fronts, but when it was revealed to him that the latter was the truth, his heart would quite shatter.”

Violet looked at her feet. Jack turned slightly pink.

“And you,” he said, turning to Jack. “I would hope that as my dear friend, you would perhaps be a little more careful with your life. True, you aren’t hiding anything about yourself, but it would still be a great disappointment to me were you to die.”

“Yes,” Jack said, looking at his own feet now.

“I don’t mean to be gloomy,” Ashton said, “and I certainly never want to be serious—I’m not old enough to be serious just yet. I believe one must be at least sixty before one can even consider being serious. So, come, smile, and let’s start on this letter of yours. That is a piece of tomfoolery I can approve of. I don’t think we can have Volio change his wardrobe just yet, but I’m sure I could persuade him to always look down when Cecily enters a room, or some gesture that would cause you a little amusement. After all, when a man is truly in love, as you say this Volio chap is, then he is as easy to lead about as a bull by the nose ring.”

“Actually,” Jack said, “Toby, Drew, and Miriam said they’d be spending the day at White’s Club on Saint James’s, and that if we convinced you to assist in the letter writing and wanted company, we should send a messenger and they would join us.”

“A chance to meet your new friends?” Ashton said, a wide smile on his lips. “Sounds splendid. And they sound like quite my type of rogues if they are not only members of White’s, but have also somehow managed to sneak a woman in.”

“I was curious about that, as well,” Violet said. “Remember, though, Ashton: I’m also Ashton, and you’re my cousin.”

“Two cousins named Ashton? They didn’t find that curious?”

“I said it was a family name. Still surprised it worked, actually. Shall we send Antony out to White’s with a message?”

“Antony?” Ashton asked, looking down. “No, no. Antony is resting. I’ll step out and have one of the pages run over. Besides, it’s beginning to rain, and Antony looks so sad when his clothing is soaked.”

Jack and Violet exchanged a glance. “Send the note however you wish, fellow,” Jack said. “To Sir Toby Belch, at White’s. Let them know that Mr. Adams requests their company for mischief.”

Ashton nodded, and penned a quick note before running out into the rain, flagging down a young urchin, and giving him a few coins and the note. The boy went dashing off.

Jack and Violet watched this from the window. “It must be odd having a lover as a servant,” Jack said.

“You mean a servant as a lover,” Violet said. “What you describe is merely how most men view marriage.”

Jack snorted as Ashton came back in.

“It will be quite a storm tonight,” Ashton said, brushing his jacket down. “Now, let’s get out some brandy and playing cards and prepare for our guests.”

By the time they had set up the card table and gotten out glasses, the others had arrived. Violet greeted them at the door, and they smiled at her through the rain, Drew holding an absurdly large umbrella over them all.

“Come in,” Violet said. “Ashton has agreed to help and is eager to meet you all.”

“And,” said Ashton, stepping up behind Violet, “I’m eager to hear how you sneaked a lady into White’s.”

“Ah,” said Toby, taking off his jacket, “that’s a clever scheme on my part. You see, you ask for a private room for a private game, but on the ground floor, in the back right corner.”

“The farceur has me sneak in through the window,” Miriam interrupted, “and duck under the table whenever one of the stewards comes in. Which is often, with the amount of hot chocolate these two gros garçons order.”

“It’s so good and creamy,” Drew said, closing his eyes.

“You are already one of my new favorite lady friends,” Ashton said to Miriam. “I’m afraid we don’t have much in the way of hot chocolate, but we do have plenty of other refreshments. And I’ve set up the card table. What were you playing at the club?”

“Poker,” Toby said. “Shall I deal?”

“Certainly,” Ashton said, “but I need to know more about what you’d like from these false love notes to Volio, so I may write them as you play. What they should say, what you’d like him to do, and such.”

“Can you arrange for him never to speak?” Violet asked. “His voice is most tedious.”

“I will assist Ashton,” Miriam said, then cocked her head. “Cousin Ashton, I mean. The rest of you play cards. You are all so generous in helping me. You don’t need to do any more.”

“Excellent,” Ashton said. “Let us write, then.”

Over the next hour, Miriam and Ashton worked on the missive to Volio and then joined the others in playing cards. It had begun to rain very hard outside, but there was much laughter as Ashton told them of his various adventures at the art galleries. He also praised Miriam’s literary skill in writing the love letter, and soon they were all fast friends. A little before supper, the party left, Miriam clutching the note she was to deliver to Volio that night.

They hailed a cab and piled in it, heading back to Illyria.

“Your cousin’s a real swell,” Toby said to Violet in the cab, “but I’m not sure I liked him praising Miri so much.”

Jack snickered. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”

Miriam nodded. “Your jealousy is attractive only if well placed, Toby,” she said.

Toby furrowed his brow, confused, but decided to accept this answer.

“He’s a molly, Toby,” Drew said.

Toby’s eyes grew wide. “Oh!” he said, and everyone burst out laughing.

* * *



AT the entrance to Illyria, Miriam peeled away from the group, Toby sneaking one kiss before heading into the college for supper. Miriam walked to the garden beside Illyria and up to the riverbank. The rain was falling even more heavily now, so she lifted the hood of her cloak and watched the storm fall into the water. She had been having trouble sleeping of late, and was haunted by the automaton in the basement with the face of the duke. Surely it had been her mind playing tricks on her. She took a deep breath, smelled the river and the wet grass and the rain, and pushed thoughts of the cellar from her mind. Let them wash off her.

As a child in Persia, Miriam had not been allowed to play in the rain. In Esfahān, the Jewish ghetto was marked by rough fences, and the streets were worn layers of dirt, which in the rain became puddles of heavy mud that splashed as the water hit them. Miriam would stare at them through the windows and long to go outside and play in them. The water from the sky looked so inviting, almost magical. To be drenched by the sky sounded delightful to her. She was only six, and was just beginning to understand that there were rules, and they were either to be obeyed or broken.

Her parents were not watching. The street outside the window was empty. Mother was sewing by the fire, and Father was going over his accounts. Business was not doing well. Recently, a group of local youths had broken into his shop and taken many of the goods. The police had done nothing, since there were no Muslim witnesses. Miriam glanced around and slowly, quietly lowered herself off the bench she had been kneeling on to look out the window. She crept to the door, reached up to the handle, and opened it. The sound of the rain intensified, droplets hitting the dirt, heavy and thick. She could barely see more than a few feet in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she ran out into the rain.

She was soaked instantly. Her dress became plastered to her body. Her long hair, which had been pinned back under a scarf, fell loose under its own weight and pressed down on her head. She laughed. The water felt cool and good, and ran down her face. She couldn’t see anything besides the rain and mud. She was alone in the world, and didn’t need to worry about the Muslims, or even the Jews, her family, the rules of behavior. She was free and separate. For the first time, she felt she was not like a small part of a bigger whole she’d never volunteered for, governed by its rules and standards, but like Miriam, just Miriam, completely. She laughed louder and looked up at the sky. The droplets zoomed toward her out of a silver background.

But then her father had swept her up in his arms and run back inside with her. “What were you doing?” he yelled, putting her down. Her mother had been standing just inside the door, her hands clasped anxiously, but now she went to work, stripping Miriam as her father yelled, and placing her clothes over the fire to dry. “Do you know what the Muslims would have done if they had seen you?” her father continued. “They would have killed you!” Miriam was naked now, and shivering. Her mother moved her closer to the fire. Her father sighed and lowered his voice. “To them, we are dirty. When we go out into the rain, this invisible dirt that they claim is on us washes down into the mud. They could step in it, and get their boots dirty. For that, they would kill us.”

“But if they step in the mud,” Miriam said, “their boots are going to be dirty even if I wasn’t playing in the rain.”

Her father sighed again and sat down, throwing a look at her mother. “It is different,” her mother said. “It is because we are Jews.”

“Then I don’t want to be a Jew,” Miriam said.

Her mother slapped her across the face. “Don’t ever say that,” her mother said, and pulled the now crying Miriam into a tender hug before dressing her. Miriam went back to kneeling at the window, and looking out at the rain. It fell heavier and heavier, but to Miriam, the thought of playing in it made her feel light.

A week later, the local boys broke into her father’s shop again, and this time destroyed as much as they stole. Two weeks after that, her family left for Paris.

Miriam stared out at the sky. The rain was coming down fiercely, so that she could barely see across the river.

“When I said we’d meet in the garden, I assumed you would choose a place under the doorway, out of the rain,” Volio said harshly from behind her. Miriam turned. He was not dressed for the weather, and his dark hair was plastered to his ghostly skin, giving him a slimy and cold look. His eyes reflected the shine of a nearby electric lamppost.

“I like the rain,” Miriam said simply. She took the false note out of her cloak pocket and handed it to Volio, who snatched her wrist with one hand and held it, removing the note with his other hand. He pocketed the note and grinned at her. “You have your note,” she said, trying not to sound afraid. “Now let me go.”

“I was thinking about it,” Volio said, still holding her wrist, “about how I have devoted much of my life to scientific pursuits and thus have had little time to indulge in romantic ones. I have seen a whore now and then, but I don’t like paying for something others receive for free, so I usually go to the cheaper ones, who don’t know much about screwing like a lady. But you … you’re a high-priced whore, aren’t you? F*cking a baron, working as a governess. But you, I could f*ck for free.”

The rain had made her wrist slippery, so when Miriam pulled it back in disgust, it slipped from Volio’s grasp. Volio slapped her lightly across the face. “Not the way to respect your betters,” he said.

“You are not my better,” Miriam said. “And the most you will get out of me are those letters. If you try to take more, I shall tell the duke of your attempts to force yourself on me, and if I lose my job, I shall not mind it.”

Volio let out a single crack of laughter. “The duke?” he said. “The duke is nothing at Illyria. A figurehead. He wasn’t even invited to know the school’s secrets. He would be nothing against us.” His words hung in the air, confident and electric, as the rain continued to fall down around them.

Miriam stared hard at Volio, trying to uncover his meaning, discern whether he was bluffing. Did he know something about the duke-automata? The rain fell hard on both of them, and a long roll of thunder vibrated the air.

“Then I’ll tell Cecily you forced yourself on me. She certainly would never love you then,” Miriam said.

Volio glared at her a moment, water running down his face, and then spit. “Fine,” he said. “Letters only. You’re a cunning bitch. I suppose most Jewesses are. I’ll give you my next note for Cecily the night after tomorrow. I shall need that time to put words to the sentimentality I feel in my heart.” He smiled in a way that made her shiver, and stalked off into the darkness.

Miriam let out a deep breath and turned to face the river again, letting the rain pour down on her. She had experienced things in her life that frightened her before—hate and fire and violence—but Volio seemed to be something beyond all that. He had hate, fire, and violence in him, but it was his aura of cruelty that scared her, the thought that he felt so superior to all around him that he had the right to cut them open just to enjoy the smell of their blood.

Miriam shivered again, her body becoming damp under the cloak. She was meeting Toby later at a hotel they often went to. She took another deep breath and listened to the sound of the rain a while longer before she set out for the road, thinking of Toby’s warmth, of his hands gliding around her waist and down her thighs, and of the way he smiled, filled with adoration and joy as he kissed her body. She would not tell him of Volio’s proposal. That would result in violence, and perhaps Toby’s expulsion, and if Volio wasn’t lying about his power, possibly worse. Truthfully, she didn’t know who really ran Illyria. She had always thought it was the duke, but Volio had spoken with such conviction that now she wasn’t sure.

She pulled her cloak tightly around her and caught a cab to the hotel. She would tell Toby that the exchange went fine, that Volio said nothing of import, and then take him in her arms and make love to him until she forgot everything but the rain.