Mrs. Tilbury's Paramour by E.J. LeRoy
An unconventional romance set in an alternative past where clockwork technology reigns; first published in Phantasmical Contraptions & More Errors by JayHenge Publishing, 2022.
When Frédérick Caron received the French country house address from the agency, he smiled at the prospect of the challenge. The eccentric American widow, Mrs. Tilbury, turned away several men already without giving clear reasons. Her application said she was looking for "a young man under thirty years of age, one who speaks good English, is handsome, polite, accommodating, debonair, more than reasonably intelligent, and - if possible - a dashing foreigner."
Of course, there were many men at the agency who met those criteria. But none as well as Frédérick, at least according to himself. As for the first requirement, he was nearly a decade younger than the age limit. His English was impeccable. And no one would believe for a moment that he didn't meet or exceed all the other qualifications in Mrs. Tilbury's application.
Even the last peculiar note, "a dashing foreigner," was in his favor. Although not particularly tall, he was trim and had a lovely countenance with fine features. Men and women alike were inclined to call him "beautiful," for he had an almost feminine appearance and bearing. On account of his mixed heritage, his dark hair had a natural wave that many ladies found appealing. His hazel eyes were nearly golden. The fullness of his lips promised only the finest kisses. His skin tone was ambiguous, allowing him to easily pass for a Spaniard. That was assuming, of course, he did not sit in the sun long enough to reveal his partial African ancestry. He was, in a word, alluring.
When he rang the bell at Mrs. Tilbury's, he was absolutely certain he would succeed where all the other men had failed within two hours at the most. Eccentric widows, after all, were his specialty.
The woman who answered the door was a good deal taller than he and easily three times his senior. She possessed a becoming, yet formidable, plumpness that bode well with her round, cream white face. Despite her age, her hair was mostly dark and she was relatively free from wrinkles except near the corners of her eyes. She had a stately bearing emphasized by the fineness of her clothes. If Frédérick chose a word to describe her, it would be "statuesque."
"Madame Tilbury?"
"Yes, I am Mrs. Tilbury," she said in English. Her voice warbled in a manner that startled him. It was not a terrible voice, but it was odd.
"I am Frédérick Caron, madame, from the agency."
"Oh, how wonderful!" She clapped her hands in front of her in a dramatic fashion. It made Frédérick wonder if she was an actress in her younger days. "Won't you come in, Monsieur Caron?" She butchered the word "monsieur" and mispronounced his surname as "care-on."
"Frédérick would be fine, madame," he said when he followed her into the house.
"Oh, of course. Frédérick." At least she pronounced his first name correctly, complete with three syllables. "What a charming name. It simply rolls off of the tongue."
The first thing he noticed was how the salon was overwhelmed by the presence of multiple clocks and an array of scientific instruments better suited to a gentleman's study. There were also two gold parallel lines resembling railroad tracks running across the floor.
"Won't you sit down, Frédérick?" She made a grand sweep of her arm toward the sofa. "Allow me to offer you some tea. I had it imported from Britain."
Mrs. Tilbury sat across from him and twisted a gold knob on the side of her chair. After a few rotations, the tea cart on the other end of the room rattled to life. It rolled along the golden parallel tracks that ran between them as if by magic. When Mrs. Tilbury turned the knob in the opposite direction, the cart stopped.
"It's rather clever, don't you think?" she said while she served the tea. "Mr. Tilbury had this delightful contraption installed shortly after we moved in. Would you care for some sugar or cream?"
"No, thank you, madame."
Mrs. Tilbury served herself a more than ladylike amount of cream and sugar before returning to her chair. "Now, then. Tell me a little about yourself."
"I speak French and English fluently as well as some Spanish and Italian. I play the piano passably, and can sing if the occasion warrants it. Like you, madame, I have an appreciation for the finer things in life. Furthermore, I am well-versed in an art of a far more delicate and intimate nature than I should dare mention aloud."
"Oh? And what art might that be?" Her roaming eyes betrayed her interest in the ribald.
He flashed a sly smile. "The art of conversation."
Mrs. Tilbury laughed. "For a moment, I thought you were referring to some other kind of delicate and intimate art."
"Who is to say I wasn't? As I'm sure you well know, the word 'conversation' has more than one meaning."
"Indeed." Mrs. Tilbury took a sip of tea, keeping her eyes leveled at Frédérick. She was clearly testing and studying him. Frédérick met her gaze as a paramour should - never threatening, always accommodating. But he focused his eyes in a manner that suggested he could keep up with the banter and double entendres.
"Tell me, Frédérick. What do you think about clocks?"
This was not a question a woman ever asked him, but he was nonetheless prepared to answer. "There is no better way to tell the time."
"Oh, I like you." She set her tea down. "Come with me. I have something I'd like to show you."
Frédérick put his nearly full teacup and saucer on the cart and followed her. As everyone at the agency said, Mrs. Tilbury was peculiar and clearly lacking in the finer social graces. But there was also something intriguing about her flighty enthusiasm.
"This is my conservatory." Pride laced her voice. "Mr. Tilbury had it built special for me."
It was an extraordinary room. Frédérick couldn't help allowing his mouth to drop open in awe, but he quickly shut it. Not only was the conservatory filled with exotic plants from afar, butterflies in every color darted about. No, not butterflies. Something else entirely. Butterflies were silent as they flew. These creatures made a peculiar humming sound.
"And this is the watering system," Mrs. Tilbury said. She indicated toward a cuckoo clock that was hooked up to wires and thin pipes. "My husband invented it, you know. It works on a precise schedule. Twice each day, the clock turns on the water. So I never need to use a watering can."
"Ingenious."
The clock sounded the hour. Instead of a cuckoo, a mechanical singing nightingale popped out.
"I never cared for a cuckoo's squawking," Mrs. Tilbury said. "A nightingale's song is so much sweeter."
The nightingale's performance complete, its mechanical perch disappeared into the clock. Frédérick redirected his attention to the unusual creatures fluttering around him.
"Do you like my clockwork butterflies?" Mrs. Tilbury asked.
That explained the sounds they made. "They're lovely."
"Reach out and catch one if you can. They are delicate but not as fragile as the real thing."
Frédérick caught one of the butterflies and studied it. Its wings were made of shiny fabric that shimmered when in motion. The mechanized body ticked like a pocket watch.
"Did you make them, madame?"
"Oh, my dear Frédérick." She clasped her hands in front of her body as though his words were the answer to a prayer. "Do you realize you are the first person who has ever asked me that? Everyone who sees my clockwork butterflies assumes Mr. Tilbury made them. It never occurs to anyone that a widow might have pastimes other than embroidery, doily making, or idle chatter."
The butterfly ticked against his palm like a rapid heartbeat. With a gentle push, Frédérick released the clockwork creature into the air. It joined its mechanical companions for several seconds as though assuring them it was still operational. Then it fluttered in a different direction, giving the appearance it wished to be alone.
"The one disadvantage is that they must be wound by hand every day," Mrs. Tilbury said. "By morning or early afternoon, I find them scattered all over the ground like dead leaves. It is a most depressing sight. But once I wind them, they come to life again." She swallowed and then gave Frédérick a sad smile. "But what I should really like to do is invent something useful. I do believe that clockwork could potentially solve many of life's problems. The butterflies and tea cart are amusing, but just think of the other applications." Her smile broadened and her eyes sparkled. "A clockwork laundress, for example, could take the drudgery out of washing clothes. Or perhaps a clockwork carriage that didn't require horses. Now, I will be the first to admit that horses are fine, beautiful animals. But they are a lot of work to care for, and too many of them are mistreated. I recently read Black Beauty, and it was quite shocking to read some of the ways people treat such dear creatures. But a clockwork horse would help eliminate these problems. Then real horses would only belong to people who actually wanted and cared for them. Of course, my greatest ambition is to do something for medicine - a clockwork heart."
"Those are all fine aspirations, madame." He meant that sincerely. She was an odd widow to be sure, but one who seemed to have a genuinely kind soul.
"Thank you, Frédérick. I hope you will be willing to assist me with my various clockwork inventions as well as the usual services. And do forgive me for rambling. We must get on with the matter at hand. Will you join me in the living room again? Or would you prefer to discuss business in my study?"
"The decision is yours. You will find me quite accommodating in your various endeavors, whether scientific or... natural."
Mrs. Tilbury covered her gentle laugh with her plump hand and turned her head like a coy maiden. It made Frédérick adore her all the more. His soon-to-be patroness may have been a skilled inventor with dreams of improving the lot of mankind, but she was also a woman. And for this, he was grateful.
As far as he knew, none of the other men at the agency made it to the stage of official negotiations. He suspected the clockwork butterflies were the reason. His recognition of her work was the first test, one that all before him failed. He was determined to pass every test to which the enigmatic Mrs. Tilbury subjected him.
But the moment he sat across from her in what must have been the late Mr. Tilbury's study, Mrs. Tilbury transformed into a shrewd businesswoman. She was surprisingly frank in her desires, both in regard to his role as her inventor's assistant as well as matters related to the boudoir. He would receive "a most generous allowance" in addition to royalties from anything they invented together. A lawyer would be called upon to assist with the legal matters regarding patents. When it came to the specifics of payment, she did not flinch from itemizing her intended generosity toward him. Frédérick asked questions when necessary, and Mrs. Tilbury asked questions in turn. They soon reached an agreement.
"I shall be delighted to be at your service at your earliest convenience," Frédérick said when the arrangement was to their mutual liking.
"Oh, I'm so glad. Can you come to my room in fifteen minutes?"
And this too, delighted him.
For several weeks, Frédérick spent hours at a time in Mrs. Tilbury's company. Most of those hours passed in her study or makeshift laboratory. Once Mrs. Tilbury taught him the basics of clockwork mechanisms, he was able to assist her more effectively. They often worked side by side in silence, with only the sounds of ticking and tinkering filling the room. But in the evenings, their clockwork bugs, birds, and prototypes for far larger devices lay strewn across the table in a lifeless state.
After a long day of work, they retired to the salon before Mrs. Tilbury's private chef prepared their dinner. Sometimes, Mrs. Tilbury asked Frédérick to play the piano and sing for her, which he did gladly. Her warbling voice often overpowered his, which he found amusing rather than perturbing. Other evenings, they discussed their latest clockwork projects and ideas or played cards. A few times, Mrs. Tilbury asked for French lessons, but she soon admitted she was "a hopeless student of languages." Now and then, Mrs. Tilbury mentioned the late Mr. Tilbury with fondness. It was clear her love for him never died, but Frédérick bore no jealousy toward the deceased.
Dinner always teetered between modest and lavish. The table was set as though for royalty with Mrs. Tilbury's finest silverware and dishes. Everything the chef prepared was delicious but not overly rich. Mrs. Tilbury had a fondness for peasant dishes, which were no less impressive than the occasional delicacies she ordered. Despite the lack of additional company, the atmosphere was convivial thanks to Mrs. Tilbury's unwavering enthusiasm for life. One evening, Frédérick asked if she had ever been on stage, to which she replied, "Oh, I should have liked to. How perceptive of you to notice! But my father wouldn't have it. He said, 'only wicked women disgrace themselves by becoming actresses,' so he married me off to Mr. Tilbury. But if my father had lived to see me become an inventor, I think he would have preferred me to run away with an actors' troupe."
Frédérick suspected Mrs. Tilbury's late father was not her only scorner. For one thing, Mrs. Tilbury's only callers were lawyers and men of science. These were not social calls but matters of business related to Mrs. Tilbury's clockwork inventions. She never left the house, as far as Frédérick knew, and had everything ordered in. Even her correspondence, with which Frédérick sometimes assisted, was exclusively directed to technology societies and charitable organizations. The woman was, by all appearances, without family or friends.
But she was not without her consort. At the close of day, when Frédérick was invited to her boudoir, there was no discussion of clockwork devices, businessmen, lawyers, societies, and charities. Most of the time, no words were spoken. In each other's arms, they weren't Gardenia - for that was Mrs. Tilbury's first name - and Frédérick, patroness and paramour. They were simply Man and Woman behaving in a way nature intended, no different from Adam and Eve in that Garden of Eden. It was only in the morning after a peaceful sleep, when the alarm Mrs. Tilbury built woke them, that clockwork reentered their minds. And, like clockwork, their schedule of work followed by leisure never varied.
"Nightingale Forest Enterprises has written again," Mrs. Tilbury said when the mail arrived one day. She placed the letter at the opening of her and Frédérick's newest invention - a clockwork letter opener. With a turn of the crank, the brass box sucked in the letter. When the letter popped out of the other side, its top was sliced open in a perfect line. She removed the letter from its envelope by hand since there was not a mechanical way to do it yet.
"Oh, do remind me, Frédérick. Now that we have the clockwork letter opener in order, we shall have to create a clockwork letter puller-outer. It would certainly help people who have trouble with their hands. I heard Madame Leduc over at the fish market suffers terribly from arthritis." She looked at nothing in particular, like she was deep in thought. "Maybe we could come up with a better name than 'letter puller-outer.' But you're good with languages and clever names. I'm sure you'll think of something." Her eyes focused upon the letter again. "Never mind. Let's see what this letter is about... Oh, how wonderful! Frédérick, do listen to this. Nightingale Forest Enterprises desires the license to manufacture the Tilbury-Caron Letter Opener." She peered at Frédérick over the top of the letter. "I have had the pleasure of working with this company before, and I can assure you, they are quite reputable." Reading the letter to herself, she summarized Nightingale Forest Enterprises's proposed terms of the transaction.
"Would their proposal be amenable to you, Frédérick?" Mrs. Tilbury said when she finished reading. She handed him the letter. He tried to concentrate on reading it while his patroness prattled. "I think it's a wonderful idea. It could be the beginning of something grand in the world of science. Just think - an entire line of clockwork home equipment for the gentleman's study and the ladies' parlor. And that reminds me. I must make some notes regarding the Tilbury-Caron Letter Puller-Outer - or whatever we decide to call it. Please excuse me, Frédérick. But my mind is simply buzzing like a clockwork bee." With a girlish titter followed by happy humming, Mrs. Tilbury bustled out of the room. Frédérick exhaled, relieved he was finally able to read the letter from Nightingale Forest Enterprises in peace.
Just as Mrs. Tilbury said, he found the proposal amenable. The royalties on the license would be split evenly between him and Mrs. Tilbury. Moreover, Nightingale Forest Enterprises was interested in licensing additional patents from Tilbury-Caron, which is what Mrs. Tilbury had begun to call their business partnership. As soon as Mrs. Tilbury returned to the salon, he would accept the terms. Then, they would begin to work on their next project, which would hopefully come into a better name than "Tilbury-Caron Letter Puller-Outer."
It was nearly impossible for Frédérick to believe that more than two years passed in Mrs. Tilbury's company as her business partner and paramour. But like the clockwork devices they invented for Nightingale Forest Enterprises, time kept an immutable pace.
By the end of their first year together, they had licensed and collected royalties from more than a dozen clockwork innovations including the Tilbury-Caron Letter Remover (never to be called the Letter Puller-Outer again), the Tilbury-Caron Gentleman's Shaving Kit, and the Tilbury-Caron Motorized Curling Iron among other time-saving devices. But these were mere trinkets compared to some of their larger schemes. In between producing clockwork household appliances, Frédérick and Mrs. Tilbury spent a great deal of time creating prototypes for clockwork carriage horses, clockwork laundresses, and the clockwork heart.
The clockwork heart was especially dear to Mrs. Tilbury whose husband died from heart failure. She mentioned this a few months into their association. Now and then as she worked on models, she would pause and stare into space. With a sigh, she would either return to her work or tell Frédérick how lovely it would be when a frail human heart could be wound up like a pocket watch and be good as new again.
"That would be wonderful, madame," Frédérick would reply. And then they would return to work.
Of course, Frédérick had some ideas of his own - some useful and others whimsical. By their second year together, he was quite adept at creating clockwork mechanisms with little or no assistance. The Tilbury-Caron Clockwork Kaleidoscope was one of his earliest successes, followed by the Tilbury-Caron Bottle Opener. But he also kept some ideas to himself, inventions he didn't want to share royalties or credit for. The most notable of these was a pair of wind-up wings, not for the amusement of having a personal flying machine but for lifesaving applications. More specifically, a fireman could use clockwork wings to fly to the top of a building to enact a rescue. Secretly, in his precious few hours of solitude, Frédérick made various sketches and crude prototypes in pursuit of his plan. Just like Mrs. Tilbury's clockwork heart, which consumed a great deal of her attention, Frédérick found himself drawn into intense periods of study and tinkering related to his Caron Fireman's Wings.
While Frédérick secretly worked on his own projects, his collective work with Mrs. Tilbury drew increased attention from scientists and the press. Before long, hardly a day passed when Mrs. Tilbury did not receive a hoard of callers, mountains of letters, and piles of packages at her front door. The nearly constant stream of interruptions forced Mrs. Tilbury to restrict visiting hours and delegate most of her correspondence to Frédérick. And thus, Frédérick gradually became less of a co-inventor and more of a secretary as their partnership rumbled along.
Many of the letters Frédérick read were odes to Tilbury-Caron's time-saving innovations. These acts of praise ranged in size from a single sentence to convoluted jumbles akin to treatises. To save time, Frédérick developed the Tilbury-Caron Form Letter Press in order to give generic acknowledgment responses. Meanwhile, Mrs. Tilbury concentrated in her study. For several weeks, she threw herself almost completely into her clockwork heart project. On the few occasions Frédérick needed her assistance with letters of a more personal nature, he found her in an almost spiritual state as she peered over her work and blocked out the world around her. Seeing her work so intensely made Frédérick cautious about interrupting. He soon decided it best to refrain from delivering letters until she left her study for the evening.
Other letters were addressed directly to Frédérick with the intention of hiring him. He noted, with some bitterness, that Mrs. Tilbury never received these sorts of letters except when they were accidentally addressed to "Mister Tilbury" or "Monsieur Tilbury." Out of respect for his agreement with Mrs. Tilbury, he politely declined all such offers. Now and then, however, he was tempted. Mrs. Tilbury, after all, largely ignored him during the day now. And their evenings together were far less passionate than when their association began. Frédérick pushed aside his concerns as he prepared to decline yet another job offer - this one from Nightingale Forest Enterprises. But somehow, he couldn't push his pen against the paper to send his regrets. Instead, he pocketed the letter.
The packages that arrived at the door day after day ranged in size from très petite to colossal. Mrs. Tilbury insisted upon opening all parcels herself, although she sometimes did so in front of Frédérick. Whenever she opened something, she looked like a child on Christmas Eve. But unlike a spoiled child, she never expressed disappointment with any of the presents. Even when she received a sample product that clearly stole her design for the Tilbury-Caron Motorized Curling Iron, she clapped her hands and said, "Why, my dear Frédérick. It seems we have an admirer who has improved upon our design. I must write him a letter of gratitude."
One afternoon, a mysterious wooden crate roughly the size of a coffin arrived at the front door. When Frédérick found the ominous object, he shuddered at the sight. But Mrs. Tilbury, in her near constant state of marvel, brushed passed him. "Oh, that must be some of the clockwork machinery I ordered. Do be a dear and help me carry it into our study."
Frédérick helped her haul the oversized crate into the study, amazed at Mrs. Tilbury's determination to move the heavy box from one room to the next without rest until reaching her destination. He was surprised Mrs. Tilbury didn't suggest they should invent a Tilbury-Caron Clockwork Box Mover.
"Up against the wall will be fine, like a sentry at his post," Mrs. Tilbury said as she attempted to turn the box on its end. Frédérick supported the other side, afraid it would crush her. Whatever was in the box clunked as they shoved it against the wall. Although Frédérick could not be certain of the crate's contents, he assumed it was related to Mrs. Tilbury's ongoing project. The echoing clatter could only come from some sort of clockwork device, or the machinery used to build one.
"Oh, dear." Mrs. Tilbury wiped her brow with her lace handkerchief. "That was heavier than I imagined it would be. But no harm done." She put her handkerchief away. "I must admit though, hauling that crate worked up quite an appetite. Shall we have an early déjeuner?"
"Whatever you wish, madame." Even after more than two years together, Mrs. Tilbury's criminal butchery of the French language grated upon Frédérick's ears. He held back a grimace as he joined her for lunch. The mysterious box remained unmentioned throughout their meal.
For weeks, the box remained just as mysterious. Mrs. Tilbury never opened it and resisted all of Frédérick's offers to assist her with it.
"That is for a later project," Mrs. Tilbury always said. "A much later experiment. There is no point opening it now. It would only distract me from the clockwork heart. And I do believe there is some correspondence awaiting your attention."
Correspondence had become the bane of Frédérick's existence at the Tilbury residence. He suggested a number of times that Mrs. Tilbury hire a secretary so he would be free to work in the study. Perhaps a young lady in need of employment would appreciate the offer. But Mrs. Tilbury always said, "My dear Frédérick, I simply couldn't trust anybody else with such a delicate task." Somehow, Frédérick doubted her reasons. Any competent secretary could be trained to use the Tilbury-Caron Form Letter Press, thereby freeing him for more important tasks. But when Mrs. Tilbury took a notion, there was no convincing her otherwise.
While attacking the newest pile of letters, he found another offer addressed to him from Nightingale Forest Enterprises. He read the letter, which begged a man of his intellectual caliber to join their team of researchers and inventors.
Now that he spent less and less time in Mrs. Tilbury's study, he almost accepted the offer the moment he finished reading the letter. But then he recalled the passionate night before last, the look on Mrs. Tilbury - Gardenia's - face when her arms were around him. For a woman of her age, there was an angelic softness to her face. Her mature beauty was especially apparent when her hair, still only lightly tinged with gray, tumbled loose over her bare shoulders and full breasts. Her arms, soft and fat, were always so eager to embrace him in those few moments they shared in her boudoir.
Taking the job at Nightingale Forest Enterprises would put an end to all this. But it also presented an opportunity to develop his Caron Fireman's Wings. Mrs. Tilbury was just a client, after all, one who recently saw fit to relegate him to unending piles of letters to answer. Dining together began to feel obligatory, somehow devoid of Mrs. Tilbury's previous sparkle and lust for life. The nights they spent together had become almost as rare as his time in her study. If he left now, amicably, he could establish himself in a stable enterprise that promised to be far more interesting than handling correspondence. Perhaps he would receive a severance package from Mrs. Tilbury for faithful services rendered. Besides, she hardly needed him anymore. If his plan failed, he could find another eccentric widow to support him. There was no short supply of wealthy, bored, reasonably attractive widows who could devise far more interesting uses for him than writing, "Thank you for your interest in..."
He would have to break the news gently, of course. Women were, after all, the more sensitive sex. Bowing out of their current relationship would call upon all of Frédérick's diplomacy skills. When he finished replying to the most recent pile of letters, he mentally rehearsed his words of departure. But the more he thought about leaving, the more he realized he could perhaps renegotiate the terms of their agreement. Why discard their more than two year association over a possibly temporary setback? That settled the matter. He would speak to her, now. There was no sense delaying any longer.
At the door of the study, Frédérick heard something clunk followed by a groan. He flung open the door, terrified something heavy had fallen on Mrs. Tilbury. The crate that stood against the wall was open and empty except for some packing material. On the floor, a life-sized mechanical man lay on top of Mrs. Tilbury. For the briefest moment, Frédérick assumed the mannequin was crushing her. But it soon became evident Mrs. Tilbury was not only uninjured but in flagrante delicto with the ticking man.
Frédérick clenched his fists, blood pounding in his temples. "So madame, this is how you repay me for my devotion?"
Mrs. Tilbury - Gardenia - shoved her clockwork lover aside with surprising strength. She covered herself with her dress that had been lying on the floor.
"Oh, Frédérick! There's no need to be upset. He is only a toy."
Like a wind-up toy, the clockwork man jiggled on the ground without autonomy. This did not lessen the insult. If this were two centuries ago, Frédérick would call out the monstrosity that dared to come between him and his lover. Or perhaps even today. Damn the legality of it, he would shoot that interloper full of holes or slash it to pieces with a sword if he could! But there was no way to leave a dent on such a well-made hunk of metal.
"Good day, madame," Frédérick finally said. "You will not see me again."
He ignored the wailing pleas he heard from the study as he left the Tilbury residence. When he slammed the front door behind himself on the way out, he was determined to keep his promise never to return.
Alexander Johnson, the American gentleman who owned Nightingale Forest Enterprises, was thrilled to hire Frédérick and almost immediately put him to work in research and development. There was only one snag during the interview when he and Mr. Johnson met face to face for the first time. Frédérick saw the way he squinted at him through his spectacles, as though trying to ascertain what he was. When he asked, "Are you a foreigner, Mr. Caron? You don't look precisely French," Frédérick replied that he also had Spanish ancestry. He knew Americans too well to jeopardize his chances by admitting he was a gens de couleur. They had abolished slavery only a few years earlier but still would not accept a man of his background as an employee in any intellectual pursuit. If absolutely necessary, he could have added the falsehood of being an Arab or Egyptian to quell the man's suspicions. But Mr. Johnson accepted the explanation of Frédérick's alleged Spanish blood and left his inquiries at that. The job was his.
Knowing his new contract would prevent him from licensing products during his employment, Frédérick kept his plans for the Caron Fireman's Wings a secret until he saved enough money to obtain a workshop of his own. In the meantime, he developed several household products for Nightingale Forest Enterprises much as he had during his association with Mrs. Tilbury. Except now he made a salary rather than royalties from his new inventions. The devices he co-developed with Mrs. Tilbury still brought him the promised royalties just as before. Frédérick made sure of that before signing any contracts at his new place of employment.
Years passed surprisingly fast at Nightingale Forest Enterprises, despite the long hours he devoted to research every day. If it were not for his growing savings and investments, he would not have believed nearly a decade passed. He was nowhere near his goal to leave Nightingale Forest Enterprises to strike out on his own and invent the Caron Fireman's Wings, but he tinkered away, knowing he was getting closer each day.
Now and then, he thought of Mrs. Tilbury, usually when he received royalty payments from their mutual projects. In the evenings, when he was alone - for he ended his association with the agency long ago - the pleasant memories returned. But when he thought of her betrayal with that mechanical man, he shut the recollections out, trying to pretend they didn't exist. When the thoughts threatened to resurface, he busied himself with miniature prototypes for the Caron Fireman's Wings. It took all his powers of concentration to not compare his obsession to Mrs. Tilbury's beloved clockwork heart.
"There is to be an exposition, Mr. Caron," Mr. Johnson said one afternoon while Frédérick was hard at work his newest invention for Nightingale Forest Enterprises - a clockwork globe that spun on its axis for educational purposes. Like Mrs. Tilbury, Mr. Johnson had the unfortunate tendency to mispronounce his surname as "care-on." Frédérick pushed his thoughts of that... woman aside.
Mr. Johnson shoved a brochure in his direction. Frédérick looked it over. "All the major clockwork companies from around the world will be there," Mr. Johnson said, puffing out his chest. "Of course, we would like you to appear at our vendor booth to promote Nightingale Forest Enterprises's new line of educational materials for elementary students. Do you think your clockwork globe will be ready in time? It would make a fine centerpiece for the booth."
"The full-sized prototype is almost complete, Mr. Johnson. But I doubt we'll have manufacturing capabilities in place before the exposition." With Frédérick now in charge of Nightingale Forest Enterprises's research and development department, the sheer number of inventions and the resultant consumer demand far exceeded the company's manufacturing capabilities.
"Oh, that's fine, Mr. Caron. Just fine. We can take pre-orders at the show. As long as the customers can look at a single working example, I'm sure they won't mind minor delays in production. That will be all for now." He left Frédérick to his work.
Although Mr. Johnson said there would be major clockwork companies from "around the world," members of few countries were actually present. In terms of global representation, this was nothing like the Exposition Universelle Frédérick attended the year before. Whereas the previous exposition included representatives from all inhabited continents, this gathering of clockwork companies was largely restricted to European and North American exhibitors plus Japan. It was, nonetheless, fascinating.
When Frédérick wasn't minding his booth, he had the opportunity to visit other vendors. As he worked his way through the exhibitor area, he took note of the competition. Many of the clockwork devices on display were amusing rather than useful. A number of ornate music boxes, for example, drew a great deal of attention. Wind-up toys hardly deserving of a booth in a clockwork exposition also attracted crowds. Frédérick was, however, bemused by a Japanese tea serving doll that rattled its way from one end of the booth to the other and gave a little bow. Its mechanical voice box, if it could be called that, made it sound as though the doll was saying dozo. The vendor explained the tea serving doll's single spoken word was similar to voila. A few booths away, miniature prototypes of the large machines used to rotate Parmesan cheese wheels in Italy also captured Frédérick's attention.
On his way back to his own booth, Frédérick became stalled by a large, enthusiastic crowd that seemed to be heading for a particular display. He couldn't see over or around the mass of people but was eager to discover what inspired them to push forward.
When he made it to the booth of interest, he stiffened at the sight of its proprietress. She had the same warbling voice and bubbling energy he remembered. Her hair was a little grayer but her face bore no additional wrinkles. Mrs. Tilbury, who had been chatting enthusiastically with a customer in a combination of English and butchered French, somehow sensed his presence. Their eyes met and the energy of recognition passed between them.
"Monsieur Caron," Mrs. Tilbury said with a smile. "I was dearly hoping you would be here." She picked up the completed prototype of her clockwork heart. It visibly beat against her cupped hands at the same pace as the real organ. "Did you see? I finally made it work. It won't be long before surgeons can install it in patients with defective hearts. Isn't it wonderful?"
Her girlish, innocent enthusiasm for her invention could not soften Frédérick's betrayed heart - something Mrs. Tilbury and her mechanical substitute for a heart could never understand. "You have my congratulations, madame. But you must excuse me. I have a booth to manage." He disappeared into the crowd without giving Mrs. Tilbury a chance to reply.
It was another decade before Frédérick was able to create a clockwork company of his own. Mr. Johnson was hardly pleased with one of his most prolific inventor's departure. But that was no concern of Frédérick's. With financial security, a laboratory of his own, and the freedom to patent his inventions, he could finally create life-sized prototypes of the Caron Fireman's Wings. The invention, he knew, could take several more years of his life - and he was no longer the young man who once had a reputation at the agency. He still considered himself attractive, perhaps more so now that he was mature. Many young women preferred a man who was experienced. Of course, such women did not look for suitors at the agency. Any further business Frédérick could possibly have with his former employer would be as a client rather than a paramour. But he had no time or interest in such frivolities beyond occasional assignations. And a man of his bearing and reputation certainly did not need to pay for them.
Since Mrs. Tilbury managed to invent that foolish clockwork heart, which was now being installed in patients' chests, Frédérick had no choice but to push forward with his own project. Preferably, the wings would be in use at fire stations both in France and around the world while Mrs. Tilbury still lived. He didn't want her admiration. But inventing something with the magnitude of the Caron Fireman's Wings - without financial assistance or sharing credit for his work - would prove he was a man of science and not merely some plaything to be tossed aside on a whim in favor of the next amusing toy.
If only it was possible to invent a device to slow or stop time, Frédérick lamented one day while making calculations for the newest model of the Caron Fireman's Wings. Early models were already in use at the local fire department, but a few adjustments were necessary. As the wings existed now, they did not last long after surviving a fire. After one or two uses, they were essentially no better than scrap metal due to the heat of the flames. Thus far, there had been no accidents, but for safety, they were marketed as single-use products. So Frédérick spent a good deal of time researching advances in flame retardant materials, which he hoped to use to coat the next generation of wings.
It was on one of these long days of tinkering and research, when Frédérick was buried under piles of trade journals, that he received a letter addressed to "Monsieur Frédérick Caron" with no indication of who sent it. Frédérick tore it open by hand, not bothering to use the Tilbury-Caron Letter Opener or Tilbury-Caron Letter Remover.
The letter was written in English in a shaky hand that somehow managed to maintain a feminine delicacy. Upon discovering the identity of the sender, he nearly tore it up. But what good would it do? At this point, after so many years, Frédérick was surprised Mrs. Tilbury was still alive. She lived to see the unveiling of the first functioning Caron Fireman's Wings, and sent him a letter of congratulations at the time. After gloating over his victory, he tossed the letter in the fireplace. But this time, he found he could not. Perhaps he was growing too old and tired to make such flippant gestures. Maybe he wanted to hear what she had to say in person. For what reason, he couldn't imagine. Nonetheless, he decided to answer her invitation to pay her a visit at his convenience. More than thirty years after storming out of Mrs. Tilbury's life, he would break his vow to never return.
The steps leading up to Mrs. Tilbury's home were steeper and more numerous than Frédérick remembered. And the façade looked far more tired. When he rang the bell, the memory of Mrs. Tilbury's first appearance in the doorway surfaced. What should have been a knife wound in his chest felt like a dull, warm ache. The way Mrs. Tilbury's statuesque frame practically dwarfed the doorway, her exuberant personality, her endearing eccentricities - as the recollections rushed through him, he found it increasingly difficult to maintain his decades long grudge.
An ethnically ambiguous young man answered the door - Mrs. Tilbury's latest paramour, most likely. She always had a fondness for "dashing foreigners."
"Monsieur Caron?"
"Oui."
"Mrs. Tilbury has been expecting you," he said in English. Frédérick couldn't place his accent.
"Thank you, monsieur."
The man led him past the salon and up the stairs. "I am Rami Elsaid. Mrs. Tilbury has been very ill, and I have been managing her affairs."
Frédérick felt his heart sink into his stomach, which surprised him. It was difficult to imagine the lively Mrs. Tilbury as seriously ill. Then again, she would be nearly a century old by now. They stopped outside her bedroom door, which was ajar.
"Is that you, Rami?" Her voice still warbled but sounded far weaker than when Frédérick last saw her at the clockwork exposition. Had it really been twenty years ago?
"Yes, Monsieur Frédérick Caron has come to pay you a visit."
"Oh, do send him in. I don't mind him seeing me in my nightgown."
Rami indicated Frédérick should enter, so he did. The room was cheerful, but Mrs. Tilbury lay under the covers, flat on her back. Her hair, now completely white, lay long and loose around her. She had lost some of her fat and gained more than a few wrinkles. Her sparkling eyes and smile remained as beautiful as ever. As Frédérick sat in the chair beside her, and she grabbed his hand, he could no longer despise her.
The nightingale clock attached to the wall chimed the hour. Its little mechanical bird sang before being sucked back into its hiding place.
"I had Rami move the clock from the conservatory into my room so it could sing to me every hour," Mrs. Tilbury said. As weak as she appeared, her grip on Frédérick's hand was strong. "He winds the clockwork butterflies every morning and handles my correspondence. I'm afraid I'm far too old for romance."
Frédérick replied with a sad smile.
"I suppose you have a lovely young lady to share your bed when you aren't hard at work on your Caron Fireman's Wings." She winked.
"No lovely young lady could ever compare to the one I'm currently holding hands with."
Mrs. Tilbury unleashed a silvery laugh. "Oh, Frédérick. You always were a flatterer." She swallowed. Her eyes became misty. "I'm afraid I threw away what we might have shared. It took me many years to learn that. Hand me my handkerchief, will you?"
Frédérick found the handkerchief on the floor and gave it to her. Mrs. Tilbury dabbed her eyes. "Thank you, dear. I don't suppose it would be of interest to you, but I threw away that monstrous mechanical man many years ago."
"Did you break it with your enthusiasm?"
Another laugh escaped her craggy throat. "No. After the novelty passed, I came to realize a clockwork man is no substitute for the real thing. I don't suppose it ever was. Although, in its favor, it did last much longer."
"In that case, it's a good thing that infernal contraption never caught on. So many husbands and lovers would be relegated to the salon."
Mrs. Tilbury squeezed his hand. She made no apology, and neither did Frédérick. It wasn't always desirable to fill the air with unnecessary words.
"I am glad you came to see me, Frédérick," Mrs. Tilbury said after a long silence. "Even a clockwork heart cannot last forever, and I had no intention of undergoing another surgery to be wound up again. Some things are better left to nature, don't you think?"
"I do indeed, madame."
"Do you remember how we used to sing in the salon together after a long day in the study?"
"Of course. You sang like an angel on high."
"Oh, Frédérick. There's a difference between flattery and outright lying. I sang like a sick cat, and you know it."
"I'm afraid that's true."
They shared some gentle laughter.
"But you sang like a nightingale," Mrs. Tilbury said, her eyes still adoring him after so many years. "Do you still sing?"
"It's been many years, madame."
"I'm afraid I can't anymore, for which the world is probably grateful. Rami certainly must be. But would you do me the honor?"
So he sang while Mrs. Tilbury's clockwork heart beat for the last time.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
Of course, there were many men at the agency who met those criteria. But none as well as Frédérick, at least according to himself. As for the first requirement, he was nearly a decade younger than the age limit. His English was impeccable. And no one would believe for a moment that he didn't meet or exceed all the other qualifications in Mrs. Tilbury's application.
Even the last peculiar note, "a dashing foreigner," was in his favor. Although not particularly tall, he was trim and had a lovely countenance with fine features. Men and women alike were inclined to call him "beautiful," for he had an almost feminine appearance and bearing. On account of his mixed heritage, his dark hair had a natural wave that many ladies found appealing. His hazel eyes were nearly golden. The fullness of his lips promised only the finest kisses. His skin tone was ambiguous, allowing him to easily pass for a Spaniard. That was assuming, of course, he did not sit in the sun long enough to reveal his partial African ancestry. He was, in a word, alluring.
When he rang the bell at Mrs. Tilbury's, he was absolutely certain he would succeed where all the other men had failed within two hours at the most. Eccentric widows, after all, were his specialty.
The woman who answered the door was a good deal taller than he and easily three times his senior. She possessed a becoming, yet formidable, plumpness that bode well with her round, cream white face. Despite her age, her hair was mostly dark and she was relatively free from wrinkles except near the corners of her eyes. She had a stately bearing emphasized by the fineness of her clothes. If Frédérick chose a word to describe her, it would be "statuesque."
"Madame Tilbury?"
"Yes, I am Mrs. Tilbury," she said in English. Her voice warbled in a manner that startled him. It was not a terrible voice, but it was odd.
"I am Frédérick Caron, madame, from the agency."
"Oh, how wonderful!" She clapped her hands in front of her in a dramatic fashion. It made Frédérick wonder if she was an actress in her younger days. "Won't you come in, Monsieur Caron?" She butchered the word "monsieur" and mispronounced his surname as "care-on."
"Frédérick would be fine, madame," he said when he followed her into the house.
"Oh, of course. Frédérick." At least she pronounced his first name correctly, complete with three syllables. "What a charming name. It simply rolls off of the tongue."
The first thing he noticed was how the salon was overwhelmed by the presence of multiple clocks and an array of scientific instruments better suited to a gentleman's study. There were also two gold parallel lines resembling railroad tracks running across the floor.
"Won't you sit down, Frédérick?" She made a grand sweep of her arm toward the sofa. "Allow me to offer you some tea. I had it imported from Britain."
Mrs. Tilbury sat across from him and twisted a gold knob on the side of her chair. After a few rotations, the tea cart on the other end of the room rattled to life. It rolled along the golden parallel tracks that ran between them as if by magic. When Mrs. Tilbury turned the knob in the opposite direction, the cart stopped.
"It's rather clever, don't you think?" she said while she served the tea. "Mr. Tilbury had this delightful contraption installed shortly after we moved in. Would you care for some sugar or cream?"
"No, thank you, madame."
Mrs. Tilbury served herself a more than ladylike amount of cream and sugar before returning to her chair. "Now, then. Tell me a little about yourself."
"I speak French and English fluently as well as some Spanish and Italian. I play the piano passably, and can sing if the occasion warrants it. Like you, madame, I have an appreciation for the finer things in life. Furthermore, I am well-versed in an art of a far more delicate and intimate nature than I should dare mention aloud."
"Oh? And what art might that be?" Her roaming eyes betrayed her interest in the ribald.
He flashed a sly smile. "The art of conversation."
Mrs. Tilbury laughed. "For a moment, I thought you were referring to some other kind of delicate and intimate art."
"Who is to say I wasn't? As I'm sure you well know, the word 'conversation' has more than one meaning."
"Indeed." Mrs. Tilbury took a sip of tea, keeping her eyes leveled at Frédérick. She was clearly testing and studying him. Frédérick met her gaze as a paramour should - never threatening, always accommodating. But he focused his eyes in a manner that suggested he could keep up with the banter and double entendres.
"Tell me, Frédérick. What do you think about clocks?"
This was not a question a woman ever asked him, but he was nonetheless prepared to answer. "There is no better way to tell the time."
"Oh, I like you." She set her tea down. "Come with me. I have something I'd like to show you."
Frédérick put his nearly full teacup and saucer on the cart and followed her. As everyone at the agency said, Mrs. Tilbury was peculiar and clearly lacking in the finer social graces. But there was also something intriguing about her flighty enthusiasm.
"This is my conservatory." Pride laced her voice. "Mr. Tilbury had it built special for me."
It was an extraordinary room. Frédérick couldn't help allowing his mouth to drop open in awe, but he quickly shut it. Not only was the conservatory filled with exotic plants from afar, butterflies in every color darted about. No, not butterflies. Something else entirely. Butterflies were silent as they flew. These creatures made a peculiar humming sound.
"And this is the watering system," Mrs. Tilbury said. She indicated toward a cuckoo clock that was hooked up to wires and thin pipes. "My husband invented it, you know. It works on a precise schedule. Twice each day, the clock turns on the water. So I never need to use a watering can."
"Ingenious."
The clock sounded the hour. Instead of a cuckoo, a mechanical singing nightingale popped out.
"I never cared for a cuckoo's squawking," Mrs. Tilbury said. "A nightingale's song is so much sweeter."
The nightingale's performance complete, its mechanical perch disappeared into the clock. Frédérick redirected his attention to the unusual creatures fluttering around him.
"Do you like my clockwork butterflies?" Mrs. Tilbury asked.
That explained the sounds they made. "They're lovely."
"Reach out and catch one if you can. They are delicate but not as fragile as the real thing."
Frédérick caught one of the butterflies and studied it. Its wings were made of shiny fabric that shimmered when in motion. The mechanized body ticked like a pocket watch.
"Did you make them, madame?"
"Oh, my dear Frédérick." She clasped her hands in front of her body as though his words were the answer to a prayer. "Do you realize you are the first person who has ever asked me that? Everyone who sees my clockwork butterflies assumes Mr. Tilbury made them. It never occurs to anyone that a widow might have pastimes other than embroidery, doily making, or idle chatter."
The butterfly ticked against his palm like a rapid heartbeat. With a gentle push, Frédérick released the clockwork creature into the air. It joined its mechanical companions for several seconds as though assuring them it was still operational. Then it fluttered in a different direction, giving the appearance it wished to be alone.
"The one disadvantage is that they must be wound by hand every day," Mrs. Tilbury said. "By morning or early afternoon, I find them scattered all over the ground like dead leaves. It is a most depressing sight. But once I wind them, they come to life again." She swallowed and then gave Frédérick a sad smile. "But what I should really like to do is invent something useful. I do believe that clockwork could potentially solve many of life's problems. The butterflies and tea cart are amusing, but just think of the other applications." Her smile broadened and her eyes sparkled. "A clockwork laundress, for example, could take the drudgery out of washing clothes. Or perhaps a clockwork carriage that didn't require horses. Now, I will be the first to admit that horses are fine, beautiful animals. But they are a lot of work to care for, and too many of them are mistreated. I recently read Black Beauty, and it was quite shocking to read some of the ways people treat such dear creatures. But a clockwork horse would help eliminate these problems. Then real horses would only belong to people who actually wanted and cared for them. Of course, my greatest ambition is to do something for medicine - a clockwork heart."
"Those are all fine aspirations, madame." He meant that sincerely. She was an odd widow to be sure, but one who seemed to have a genuinely kind soul.
"Thank you, Frédérick. I hope you will be willing to assist me with my various clockwork inventions as well as the usual services. And do forgive me for rambling. We must get on with the matter at hand. Will you join me in the living room again? Or would you prefer to discuss business in my study?"
"The decision is yours. You will find me quite accommodating in your various endeavors, whether scientific or... natural."
Mrs. Tilbury covered her gentle laugh with her plump hand and turned her head like a coy maiden. It made Frédérick adore her all the more. His soon-to-be patroness may have been a skilled inventor with dreams of improving the lot of mankind, but she was also a woman. And for this, he was grateful.
As far as he knew, none of the other men at the agency made it to the stage of official negotiations. He suspected the clockwork butterflies were the reason. His recognition of her work was the first test, one that all before him failed. He was determined to pass every test to which the enigmatic Mrs. Tilbury subjected him.
But the moment he sat across from her in what must have been the late Mr. Tilbury's study, Mrs. Tilbury transformed into a shrewd businesswoman. She was surprisingly frank in her desires, both in regard to his role as her inventor's assistant as well as matters related to the boudoir. He would receive "a most generous allowance" in addition to royalties from anything they invented together. A lawyer would be called upon to assist with the legal matters regarding patents. When it came to the specifics of payment, she did not flinch from itemizing her intended generosity toward him. Frédérick asked questions when necessary, and Mrs. Tilbury asked questions in turn. They soon reached an agreement.
"I shall be delighted to be at your service at your earliest convenience," Frédérick said when the arrangement was to their mutual liking.
"Oh, I'm so glad. Can you come to my room in fifteen minutes?"
And this too, delighted him.
For several weeks, Frédérick spent hours at a time in Mrs. Tilbury's company. Most of those hours passed in her study or makeshift laboratory. Once Mrs. Tilbury taught him the basics of clockwork mechanisms, he was able to assist her more effectively. They often worked side by side in silence, with only the sounds of ticking and tinkering filling the room. But in the evenings, their clockwork bugs, birds, and prototypes for far larger devices lay strewn across the table in a lifeless state.
After a long day of work, they retired to the salon before Mrs. Tilbury's private chef prepared their dinner. Sometimes, Mrs. Tilbury asked Frédérick to play the piano and sing for her, which he did gladly. Her warbling voice often overpowered his, which he found amusing rather than perturbing. Other evenings, they discussed their latest clockwork projects and ideas or played cards. A few times, Mrs. Tilbury asked for French lessons, but she soon admitted she was "a hopeless student of languages." Now and then, Mrs. Tilbury mentioned the late Mr. Tilbury with fondness. It was clear her love for him never died, but Frédérick bore no jealousy toward the deceased.
Dinner always teetered between modest and lavish. The table was set as though for royalty with Mrs. Tilbury's finest silverware and dishes. Everything the chef prepared was delicious but not overly rich. Mrs. Tilbury had a fondness for peasant dishes, which were no less impressive than the occasional delicacies she ordered. Despite the lack of additional company, the atmosphere was convivial thanks to Mrs. Tilbury's unwavering enthusiasm for life. One evening, Frédérick asked if she had ever been on stage, to which she replied, "Oh, I should have liked to. How perceptive of you to notice! But my father wouldn't have it. He said, 'only wicked women disgrace themselves by becoming actresses,' so he married me off to Mr. Tilbury. But if my father had lived to see me become an inventor, I think he would have preferred me to run away with an actors' troupe."
Frédérick suspected Mrs. Tilbury's late father was not her only scorner. For one thing, Mrs. Tilbury's only callers were lawyers and men of science. These were not social calls but matters of business related to Mrs. Tilbury's clockwork inventions. She never left the house, as far as Frédérick knew, and had everything ordered in. Even her correspondence, with which Frédérick sometimes assisted, was exclusively directed to technology societies and charitable organizations. The woman was, by all appearances, without family or friends.
But she was not without her consort. At the close of day, when Frédérick was invited to her boudoir, there was no discussion of clockwork devices, businessmen, lawyers, societies, and charities. Most of the time, no words were spoken. In each other's arms, they weren't Gardenia - for that was Mrs. Tilbury's first name - and Frédérick, patroness and paramour. They were simply Man and Woman behaving in a way nature intended, no different from Adam and Eve in that Garden of Eden. It was only in the morning after a peaceful sleep, when the alarm Mrs. Tilbury built woke them, that clockwork reentered their minds. And, like clockwork, their schedule of work followed by leisure never varied.
"Nightingale Forest Enterprises has written again," Mrs. Tilbury said when the mail arrived one day. She placed the letter at the opening of her and Frédérick's newest invention - a clockwork letter opener. With a turn of the crank, the brass box sucked in the letter. When the letter popped out of the other side, its top was sliced open in a perfect line. She removed the letter from its envelope by hand since there was not a mechanical way to do it yet.
"Oh, do remind me, Frédérick. Now that we have the clockwork letter opener in order, we shall have to create a clockwork letter puller-outer. It would certainly help people who have trouble with their hands. I heard Madame Leduc over at the fish market suffers terribly from arthritis." She looked at nothing in particular, like she was deep in thought. "Maybe we could come up with a better name than 'letter puller-outer.' But you're good with languages and clever names. I'm sure you'll think of something." Her eyes focused upon the letter again. "Never mind. Let's see what this letter is about... Oh, how wonderful! Frédérick, do listen to this. Nightingale Forest Enterprises desires the license to manufacture the Tilbury-Caron Letter Opener." She peered at Frédérick over the top of the letter. "I have had the pleasure of working with this company before, and I can assure you, they are quite reputable." Reading the letter to herself, she summarized Nightingale Forest Enterprises's proposed terms of the transaction.
"Would their proposal be amenable to you, Frédérick?" Mrs. Tilbury said when she finished reading. She handed him the letter. He tried to concentrate on reading it while his patroness prattled. "I think it's a wonderful idea. It could be the beginning of something grand in the world of science. Just think - an entire line of clockwork home equipment for the gentleman's study and the ladies' parlor. And that reminds me. I must make some notes regarding the Tilbury-Caron Letter Puller-Outer - or whatever we decide to call it. Please excuse me, Frédérick. But my mind is simply buzzing like a clockwork bee." With a girlish titter followed by happy humming, Mrs. Tilbury bustled out of the room. Frédérick exhaled, relieved he was finally able to read the letter from Nightingale Forest Enterprises in peace.
Just as Mrs. Tilbury said, he found the proposal amenable. The royalties on the license would be split evenly between him and Mrs. Tilbury. Moreover, Nightingale Forest Enterprises was interested in licensing additional patents from Tilbury-Caron, which is what Mrs. Tilbury had begun to call their business partnership. As soon as Mrs. Tilbury returned to the salon, he would accept the terms. Then, they would begin to work on their next project, which would hopefully come into a better name than "Tilbury-Caron Letter Puller-Outer."
It was nearly impossible for Frédérick to believe that more than two years passed in Mrs. Tilbury's company as her business partner and paramour. But like the clockwork devices they invented for Nightingale Forest Enterprises, time kept an immutable pace.
By the end of their first year together, they had licensed and collected royalties from more than a dozen clockwork innovations including the Tilbury-Caron Letter Remover (never to be called the Letter Puller-Outer again), the Tilbury-Caron Gentleman's Shaving Kit, and the Tilbury-Caron Motorized Curling Iron among other time-saving devices. But these were mere trinkets compared to some of their larger schemes. In between producing clockwork household appliances, Frédérick and Mrs. Tilbury spent a great deal of time creating prototypes for clockwork carriage horses, clockwork laundresses, and the clockwork heart.
The clockwork heart was especially dear to Mrs. Tilbury whose husband died from heart failure. She mentioned this a few months into their association. Now and then as she worked on models, she would pause and stare into space. With a sigh, she would either return to her work or tell Frédérick how lovely it would be when a frail human heart could be wound up like a pocket watch and be good as new again.
"That would be wonderful, madame," Frédérick would reply. And then they would return to work.
Of course, Frédérick had some ideas of his own - some useful and others whimsical. By their second year together, he was quite adept at creating clockwork mechanisms with little or no assistance. The Tilbury-Caron Clockwork Kaleidoscope was one of his earliest successes, followed by the Tilbury-Caron Bottle Opener. But he also kept some ideas to himself, inventions he didn't want to share royalties or credit for. The most notable of these was a pair of wind-up wings, not for the amusement of having a personal flying machine but for lifesaving applications. More specifically, a fireman could use clockwork wings to fly to the top of a building to enact a rescue. Secretly, in his precious few hours of solitude, Frédérick made various sketches and crude prototypes in pursuit of his plan. Just like Mrs. Tilbury's clockwork heart, which consumed a great deal of her attention, Frédérick found himself drawn into intense periods of study and tinkering related to his Caron Fireman's Wings.
While Frédérick secretly worked on his own projects, his collective work with Mrs. Tilbury drew increased attention from scientists and the press. Before long, hardly a day passed when Mrs. Tilbury did not receive a hoard of callers, mountains of letters, and piles of packages at her front door. The nearly constant stream of interruptions forced Mrs. Tilbury to restrict visiting hours and delegate most of her correspondence to Frédérick. And thus, Frédérick gradually became less of a co-inventor and more of a secretary as their partnership rumbled along.
Many of the letters Frédérick read were odes to Tilbury-Caron's time-saving innovations. These acts of praise ranged in size from a single sentence to convoluted jumbles akin to treatises. To save time, Frédérick developed the Tilbury-Caron Form Letter Press in order to give generic acknowledgment responses. Meanwhile, Mrs. Tilbury concentrated in her study. For several weeks, she threw herself almost completely into her clockwork heart project. On the few occasions Frédérick needed her assistance with letters of a more personal nature, he found her in an almost spiritual state as she peered over her work and blocked out the world around her. Seeing her work so intensely made Frédérick cautious about interrupting. He soon decided it best to refrain from delivering letters until she left her study for the evening.
Other letters were addressed directly to Frédérick with the intention of hiring him. He noted, with some bitterness, that Mrs. Tilbury never received these sorts of letters except when they were accidentally addressed to "Mister Tilbury" or "Monsieur Tilbury." Out of respect for his agreement with Mrs. Tilbury, he politely declined all such offers. Now and then, however, he was tempted. Mrs. Tilbury, after all, largely ignored him during the day now. And their evenings together were far less passionate than when their association began. Frédérick pushed aside his concerns as he prepared to decline yet another job offer - this one from Nightingale Forest Enterprises. But somehow, he couldn't push his pen against the paper to send his regrets. Instead, he pocketed the letter.
The packages that arrived at the door day after day ranged in size from très petite to colossal. Mrs. Tilbury insisted upon opening all parcels herself, although she sometimes did so in front of Frédérick. Whenever she opened something, she looked like a child on Christmas Eve. But unlike a spoiled child, she never expressed disappointment with any of the presents. Even when she received a sample product that clearly stole her design for the Tilbury-Caron Motorized Curling Iron, she clapped her hands and said, "Why, my dear Frédérick. It seems we have an admirer who has improved upon our design. I must write him a letter of gratitude."
One afternoon, a mysterious wooden crate roughly the size of a coffin arrived at the front door. When Frédérick found the ominous object, he shuddered at the sight. But Mrs. Tilbury, in her near constant state of marvel, brushed passed him. "Oh, that must be some of the clockwork machinery I ordered. Do be a dear and help me carry it into our study."
Frédérick helped her haul the oversized crate into the study, amazed at Mrs. Tilbury's determination to move the heavy box from one room to the next without rest until reaching her destination. He was surprised Mrs. Tilbury didn't suggest they should invent a Tilbury-Caron Clockwork Box Mover.
"Up against the wall will be fine, like a sentry at his post," Mrs. Tilbury said as she attempted to turn the box on its end. Frédérick supported the other side, afraid it would crush her. Whatever was in the box clunked as they shoved it against the wall. Although Frédérick could not be certain of the crate's contents, he assumed it was related to Mrs. Tilbury's ongoing project. The echoing clatter could only come from some sort of clockwork device, or the machinery used to build one.
"Oh, dear." Mrs. Tilbury wiped her brow with her lace handkerchief. "That was heavier than I imagined it would be. But no harm done." She put her handkerchief away. "I must admit though, hauling that crate worked up quite an appetite. Shall we have an early déjeuner?"
"Whatever you wish, madame." Even after more than two years together, Mrs. Tilbury's criminal butchery of the French language grated upon Frédérick's ears. He held back a grimace as he joined her for lunch. The mysterious box remained unmentioned throughout their meal.
For weeks, the box remained just as mysterious. Mrs. Tilbury never opened it and resisted all of Frédérick's offers to assist her with it.
"That is for a later project," Mrs. Tilbury always said. "A much later experiment. There is no point opening it now. It would only distract me from the clockwork heart. And I do believe there is some correspondence awaiting your attention."
Correspondence had become the bane of Frédérick's existence at the Tilbury residence. He suggested a number of times that Mrs. Tilbury hire a secretary so he would be free to work in the study. Perhaps a young lady in need of employment would appreciate the offer. But Mrs. Tilbury always said, "My dear Frédérick, I simply couldn't trust anybody else with such a delicate task." Somehow, Frédérick doubted her reasons. Any competent secretary could be trained to use the Tilbury-Caron Form Letter Press, thereby freeing him for more important tasks. But when Mrs. Tilbury took a notion, there was no convincing her otherwise.
While attacking the newest pile of letters, he found another offer addressed to him from Nightingale Forest Enterprises. He read the letter, which begged a man of his intellectual caliber to join their team of researchers and inventors.
Now that he spent less and less time in Mrs. Tilbury's study, he almost accepted the offer the moment he finished reading the letter. But then he recalled the passionate night before last, the look on Mrs. Tilbury - Gardenia's - face when her arms were around him. For a woman of her age, there was an angelic softness to her face. Her mature beauty was especially apparent when her hair, still only lightly tinged with gray, tumbled loose over her bare shoulders and full breasts. Her arms, soft and fat, were always so eager to embrace him in those few moments they shared in her boudoir.
Taking the job at Nightingale Forest Enterprises would put an end to all this. But it also presented an opportunity to develop his Caron Fireman's Wings. Mrs. Tilbury was just a client, after all, one who recently saw fit to relegate him to unending piles of letters to answer. Dining together began to feel obligatory, somehow devoid of Mrs. Tilbury's previous sparkle and lust for life. The nights they spent together had become almost as rare as his time in her study. If he left now, amicably, he could establish himself in a stable enterprise that promised to be far more interesting than handling correspondence. Perhaps he would receive a severance package from Mrs. Tilbury for faithful services rendered. Besides, she hardly needed him anymore. If his plan failed, he could find another eccentric widow to support him. There was no short supply of wealthy, bored, reasonably attractive widows who could devise far more interesting uses for him than writing, "Thank you for your interest in..."
He would have to break the news gently, of course. Women were, after all, the more sensitive sex. Bowing out of their current relationship would call upon all of Frédérick's diplomacy skills. When he finished replying to the most recent pile of letters, he mentally rehearsed his words of departure. But the more he thought about leaving, the more he realized he could perhaps renegotiate the terms of their agreement. Why discard their more than two year association over a possibly temporary setback? That settled the matter. He would speak to her, now. There was no sense delaying any longer.
At the door of the study, Frédérick heard something clunk followed by a groan. He flung open the door, terrified something heavy had fallen on Mrs. Tilbury. The crate that stood against the wall was open and empty except for some packing material. On the floor, a life-sized mechanical man lay on top of Mrs. Tilbury. For the briefest moment, Frédérick assumed the mannequin was crushing her. But it soon became evident Mrs. Tilbury was not only uninjured but in flagrante delicto with the ticking man.
Frédérick clenched his fists, blood pounding in his temples. "So madame, this is how you repay me for my devotion?"
Mrs. Tilbury - Gardenia - shoved her clockwork lover aside with surprising strength. She covered herself with her dress that had been lying on the floor.
"Oh, Frédérick! There's no need to be upset. He is only a toy."
Like a wind-up toy, the clockwork man jiggled on the ground without autonomy. This did not lessen the insult. If this were two centuries ago, Frédérick would call out the monstrosity that dared to come between him and his lover. Or perhaps even today. Damn the legality of it, he would shoot that interloper full of holes or slash it to pieces with a sword if he could! But there was no way to leave a dent on such a well-made hunk of metal.
"Good day, madame," Frédérick finally said. "You will not see me again."
He ignored the wailing pleas he heard from the study as he left the Tilbury residence. When he slammed the front door behind himself on the way out, he was determined to keep his promise never to return.
Alexander Johnson, the American gentleman who owned Nightingale Forest Enterprises, was thrilled to hire Frédérick and almost immediately put him to work in research and development. There was only one snag during the interview when he and Mr. Johnson met face to face for the first time. Frédérick saw the way he squinted at him through his spectacles, as though trying to ascertain what he was. When he asked, "Are you a foreigner, Mr. Caron? You don't look precisely French," Frédérick replied that he also had Spanish ancestry. He knew Americans too well to jeopardize his chances by admitting he was a gens de couleur. They had abolished slavery only a few years earlier but still would not accept a man of his background as an employee in any intellectual pursuit. If absolutely necessary, he could have added the falsehood of being an Arab or Egyptian to quell the man's suspicions. But Mr. Johnson accepted the explanation of Frédérick's alleged Spanish blood and left his inquiries at that. The job was his.
Knowing his new contract would prevent him from licensing products during his employment, Frédérick kept his plans for the Caron Fireman's Wings a secret until he saved enough money to obtain a workshop of his own. In the meantime, he developed several household products for Nightingale Forest Enterprises much as he had during his association with Mrs. Tilbury. Except now he made a salary rather than royalties from his new inventions. The devices he co-developed with Mrs. Tilbury still brought him the promised royalties just as before. Frédérick made sure of that before signing any contracts at his new place of employment.
Years passed surprisingly fast at Nightingale Forest Enterprises, despite the long hours he devoted to research every day. If it were not for his growing savings and investments, he would not have believed nearly a decade passed. He was nowhere near his goal to leave Nightingale Forest Enterprises to strike out on his own and invent the Caron Fireman's Wings, but he tinkered away, knowing he was getting closer each day.
Now and then, he thought of Mrs. Tilbury, usually when he received royalty payments from their mutual projects. In the evenings, when he was alone - for he ended his association with the agency long ago - the pleasant memories returned. But when he thought of her betrayal with that mechanical man, he shut the recollections out, trying to pretend they didn't exist. When the thoughts threatened to resurface, he busied himself with miniature prototypes for the Caron Fireman's Wings. It took all his powers of concentration to not compare his obsession to Mrs. Tilbury's beloved clockwork heart.
"There is to be an exposition, Mr. Caron," Mr. Johnson said one afternoon while Frédérick was hard at work his newest invention for Nightingale Forest Enterprises - a clockwork globe that spun on its axis for educational purposes. Like Mrs. Tilbury, Mr. Johnson had the unfortunate tendency to mispronounce his surname as "care-on." Frédérick pushed his thoughts of that... woman aside.
Mr. Johnson shoved a brochure in his direction. Frédérick looked it over. "All the major clockwork companies from around the world will be there," Mr. Johnson said, puffing out his chest. "Of course, we would like you to appear at our vendor booth to promote Nightingale Forest Enterprises's new line of educational materials for elementary students. Do you think your clockwork globe will be ready in time? It would make a fine centerpiece for the booth."
"The full-sized prototype is almost complete, Mr. Johnson. But I doubt we'll have manufacturing capabilities in place before the exposition." With Frédérick now in charge of Nightingale Forest Enterprises's research and development department, the sheer number of inventions and the resultant consumer demand far exceeded the company's manufacturing capabilities.
"Oh, that's fine, Mr. Caron. Just fine. We can take pre-orders at the show. As long as the customers can look at a single working example, I'm sure they won't mind minor delays in production. That will be all for now." He left Frédérick to his work.
Although Mr. Johnson said there would be major clockwork companies from "around the world," members of few countries were actually present. In terms of global representation, this was nothing like the Exposition Universelle Frédérick attended the year before. Whereas the previous exposition included representatives from all inhabited continents, this gathering of clockwork companies was largely restricted to European and North American exhibitors plus Japan. It was, nonetheless, fascinating.
When Frédérick wasn't minding his booth, he had the opportunity to visit other vendors. As he worked his way through the exhibitor area, he took note of the competition. Many of the clockwork devices on display were amusing rather than useful. A number of ornate music boxes, for example, drew a great deal of attention. Wind-up toys hardly deserving of a booth in a clockwork exposition also attracted crowds. Frédérick was, however, bemused by a Japanese tea serving doll that rattled its way from one end of the booth to the other and gave a little bow. Its mechanical voice box, if it could be called that, made it sound as though the doll was saying dozo. The vendor explained the tea serving doll's single spoken word was similar to voila. A few booths away, miniature prototypes of the large machines used to rotate Parmesan cheese wheels in Italy also captured Frédérick's attention.
On his way back to his own booth, Frédérick became stalled by a large, enthusiastic crowd that seemed to be heading for a particular display. He couldn't see over or around the mass of people but was eager to discover what inspired them to push forward.
When he made it to the booth of interest, he stiffened at the sight of its proprietress. She had the same warbling voice and bubbling energy he remembered. Her hair was a little grayer but her face bore no additional wrinkles. Mrs. Tilbury, who had been chatting enthusiastically with a customer in a combination of English and butchered French, somehow sensed his presence. Their eyes met and the energy of recognition passed between them.
"Monsieur Caron," Mrs. Tilbury said with a smile. "I was dearly hoping you would be here." She picked up the completed prototype of her clockwork heart. It visibly beat against her cupped hands at the same pace as the real organ. "Did you see? I finally made it work. It won't be long before surgeons can install it in patients with defective hearts. Isn't it wonderful?"
Her girlish, innocent enthusiasm for her invention could not soften Frédérick's betrayed heart - something Mrs. Tilbury and her mechanical substitute for a heart could never understand. "You have my congratulations, madame. But you must excuse me. I have a booth to manage." He disappeared into the crowd without giving Mrs. Tilbury a chance to reply.
It was another decade before Frédérick was able to create a clockwork company of his own. Mr. Johnson was hardly pleased with one of his most prolific inventor's departure. But that was no concern of Frédérick's. With financial security, a laboratory of his own, and the freedom to patent his inventions, he could finally create life-sized prototypes of the Caron Fireman's Wings. The invention, he knew, could take several more years of his life - and he was no longer the young man who once had a reputation at the agency. He still considered himself attractive, perhaps more so now that he was mature. Many young women preferred a man who was experienced. Of course, such women did not look for suitors at the agency. Any further business Frédérick could possibly have with his former employer would be as a client rather than a paramour. But he had no time or interest in such frivolities beyond occasional assignations. And a man of his bearing and reputation certainly did not need to pay for them.
Since Mrs. Tilbury managed to invent that foolish clockwork heart, which was now being installed in patients' chests, Frédérick had no choice but to push forward with his own project. Preferably, the wings would be in use at fire stations both in France and around the world while Mrs. Tilbury still lived. He didn't want her admiration. But inventing something with the magnitude of the Caron Fireman's Wings - without financial assistance or sharing credit for his work - would prove he was a man of science and not merely some plaything to be tossed aside on a whim in favor of the next amusing toy.
If only it was possible to invent a device to slow or stop time, Frédérick lamented one day while making calculations for the newest model of the Caron Fireman's Wings. Early models were already in use at the local fire department, but a few adjustments were necessary. As the wings existed now, they did not last long after surviving a fire. After one or two uses, they were essentially no better than scrap metal due to the heat of the flames. Thus far, there had been no accidents, but for safety, they were marketed as single-use products. So Frédérick spent a good deal of time researching advances in flame retardant materials, which he hoped to use to coat the next generation of wings.
It was on one of these long days of tinkering and research, when Frédérick was buried under piles of trade journals, that he received a letter addressed to "Monsieur Frédérick Caron" with no indication of who sent it. Frédérick tore it open by hand, not bothering to use the Tilbury-Caron Letter Opener or Tilbury-Caron Letter Remover.
The letter was written in English in a shaky hand that somehow managed to maintain a feminine delicacy. Upon discovering the identity of the sender, he nearly tore it up. But what good would it do? At this point, after so many years, Frédérick was surprised Mrs. Tilbury was still alive. She lived to see the unveiling of the first functioning Caron Fireman's Wings, and sent him a letter of congratulations at the time. After gloating over his victory, he tossed the letter in the fireplace. But this time, he found he could not. Perhaps he was growing too old and tired to make such flippant gestures. Maybe he wanted to hear what she had to say in person. For what reason, he couldn't imagine. Nonetheless, he decided to answer her invitation to pay her a visit at his convenience. More than thirty years after storming out of Mrs. Tilbury's life, he would break his vow to never return.
The steps leading up to Mrs. Tilbury's home were steeper and more numerous than Frédérick remembered. And the façade looked far more tired. When he rang the bell, the memory of Mrs. Tilbury's first appearance in the doorway surfaced. What should have been a knife wound in his chest felt like a dull, warm ache. The way Mrs. Tilbury's statuesque frame practically dwarfed the doorway, her exuberant personality, her endearing eccentricities - as the recollections rushed through him, he found it increasingly difficult to maintain his decades long grudge.
An ethnically ambiguous young man answered the door - Mrs. Tilbury's latest paramour, most likely. She always had a fondness for "dashing foreigners."
"Monsieur Caron?"
"Oui."
"Mrs. Tilbury has been expecting you," he said in English. Frédérick couldn't place his accent.
"Thank you, monsieur."
The man led him past the salon and up the stairs. "I am Rami Elsaid. Mrs. Tilbury has been very ill, and I have been managing her affairs."
Frédérick felt his heart sink into his stomach, which surprised him. It was difficult to imagine the lively Mrs. Tilbury as seriously ill. Then again, she would be nearly a century old by now. They stopped outside her bedroom door, which was ajar.
"Is that you, Rami?" Her voice still warbled but sounded far weaker than when Frédérick last saw her at the clockwork exposition. Had it really been twenty years ago?
"Yes, Monsieur Frédérick Caron has come to pay you a visit."
"Oh, do send him in. I don't mind him seeing me in my nightgown."
Rami indicated Frédérick should enter, so he did. The room was cheerful, but Mrs. Tilbury lay under the covers, flat on her back. Her hair, now completely white, lay long and loose around her. She had lost some of her fat and gained more than a few wrinkles. Her sparkling eyes and smile remained as beautiful as ever. As Frédérick sat in the chair beside her, and she grabbed his hand, he could no longer despise her.
The nightingale clock attached to the wall chimed the hour. Its little mechanical bird sang before being sucked back into its hiding place.
"I had Rami move the clock from the conservatory into my room so it could sing to me every hour," Mrs. Tilbury said. As weak as she appeared, her grip on Frédérick's hand was strong. "He winds the clockwork butterflies every morning and handles my correspondence. I'm afraid I'm far too old for romance."
Frédérick replied with a sad smile.
"I suppose you have a lovely young lady to share your bed when you aren't hard at work on your Caron Fireman's Wings." She winked.
"No lovely young lady could ever compare to the one I'm currently holding hands with."
Mrs. Tilbury unleashed a silvery laugh. "Oh, Frédérick. You always were a flatterer." She swallowed. Her eyes became misty. "I'm afraid I threw away what we might have shared. It took me many years to learn that. Hand me my handkerchief, will you?"
Frédérick found the handkerchief on the floor and gave it to her. Mrs. Tilbury dabbed her eyes. "Thank you, dear. I don't suppose it would be of interest to you, but I threw away that monstrous mechanical man many years ago."
"Did you break it with your enthusiasm?"
Another laugh escaped her craggy throat. "No. After the novelty passed, I came to realize a clockwork man is no substitute for the real thing. I don't suppose it ever was. Although, in its favor, it did last much longer."
"In that case, it's a good thing that infernal contraption never caught on. So many husbands and lovers would be relegated to the salon."
Mrs. Tilbury squeezed his hand. She made no apology, and neither did Frédérick. It wasn't always desirable to fill the air with unnecessary words.
"I am glad you came to see me, Frédérick," Mrs. Tilbury said after a long silence. "Even a clockwork heart cannot last forever, and I had no intention of undergoing another surgery to be wound up again. Some things are better left to nature, don't you think?"
"I do indeed, madame."
"Do you remember how we used to sing in the salon together after a long day in the study?"
"Of course. You sang like an angel on high."
"Oh, Frédérick. There's a difference between flattery and outright lying. I sang like a sick cat, and you know it."
"I'm afraid that's true."
They shared some gentle laughter.
"But you sang like a nightingale," Mrs. Tilbury said, her eyes still adoring him after so many years. "Do you still sing?"
"It's been many years, madame."
"I'm afraid I can't anymore, for which the world is probably grateful. Rami certainly must be. But would you do me the honor?"
So he sang while Mrs. Tilbury's clockwork heart beat for the last time.
Reminiscent of steampunk fiction, but with clock mechanisms rather than steam power, this story is a hoot. I laughed aloud when it spoke of how to create a "clockwork letter puller-outer." Other "inventions of the ages" were just as preposterous and as humorous. I laughed again when Mrs. Tilbury became "involved" with the mechanical lothario. The story came full circle, when Frederick consoled his one-time employer on her deathbed. The ludicrous nature of clockwork ingenuity was maintained as reality throughout the story. I had a good time with this fiction.
ReplyDeleteI loved this! There was as much telling as showing, but I don’t mind. It felt like a very skilled storyteller spinning a tale. The main characters are compelling. The mature references were fun and in good taste. The ending was full circle. Well done! Not a boring second!
ReplyDeletePlayful and amusing--a distinctive, lively read.
ReplyDelete