IT’S RAINING PITCHFORKS AS ELIZA AND I ALIGHT FROM THE streetcar at Court Square. This October has been unusually stormy; between the resulting floods and the earthquake that rocked Boston on the twenty-second, some speculate the End Times are near. But even if Judgment Day isn’t at hand, I am determined to bring judgment down on Daniel Mowe’s head.
I always knew he was clever. I was just too besotted to realize he was also a thieving snake. And because Daniel slithered into my good graces, his accomplice got everything he needed to copy my machine without my realizing it.
Not only that, they had the cunning to expedite their patent application. Apparently, the lengthy process can be shortened through additional fees. How they covered the hefty cost is a mystery, but it paid off. A written exchange with the Patent Office confirmed that the patent certificate Daniel flaunted is legitimate—even if its claim is entirely false.
My only recourse now is a lawsuit. I don’t know much about patents, but I know less about law. If I want any hope for success, I need an attorney.
Eliza, who’s doing her best to shield us and my oilcloth-wrapped box with her umbrella, peers through the downpour. “There’s the courthouse,” she says, pointing toward its soaring pillars. “Pemberton Square is somewhere around here.”
“It’s that way.” I tilt my chin toward the next corner. “We turn right and go another block.”
As I take the lead, Eliza chuckles. “You seem to know your way.”
I snort. “I should hope so by now.”
Unlike Boston’s machinist shops, which are scattered hither and yon, her law firms cluster near the courthouse. As such, I’ve haunted these blocks the last several weeks in my search for a patent attorney.
But even though these offices contain fancy furniture and fancier staff, their reception is annoyingly similar to that of a machinist shop. When I ask to meet with an attorney, most smile condescendingly and oust me quickly, albeit politely. Of the three dozen law firms where I inquired, five deigned to offer an appointment. And once I explained that I sought counsel not for a patent application but a lawsuit, four of those five immediately withdrew their offer.
I don’t know whether to be disheartened or grateful for that one lone appointment. Either way, today I meet that attorney. If he rejects me, too, I’ll be at the end of my rope.
Our destination is a second-floor office in an ivy-draped building with curling wrought iron railings. As we enter the wood-paneled suite, my nervousness tugs up a notch. I come from the world of workshops and factories, and this landscape of leather-bound books and brass-studded cabinet letter files is a realm whose rules and customs I’ve yet to grasp.
The reception area also accommodates the lawyer’s three assistants, who look up from their desks. The eldest, whose bushy black beard sports a sprinkling of white, rises to greet us while the younger two exchange clouded looks.
Ignoring their frowns, I say to their older cohort, “My name is Margaret Knight. I have an appointment.”
“Yes, we’ve been expecting you. This way, please.”
Eliza and I leave our wraps and umbrella at a coat stand and follow the bearded assistant to a door bearing the nameplate:
Charles F. Stansbury
Counselor at Law
He gives two sharp knocks, then opens the door.
Beyond is a room redolent of leather and cigar smoke. A square table and matching chairs sit at the center. By the brocade-curtained windows is a desk holding writing implements and tidy stacks of portfolios and papers. And at that desk is a man with a silk waistcoat, fitted jacket, and shock of gray hair.
“Your two o’clock appointment, sir,” announces the assistant. “Miss Knight, you can set your box there.” He gestures toward the table, which is empty save for a large wooden tray with a shallow rim.
As I place my box by the tray, the attorney crosses the grapevine-patterned rug to offer a handshake. “Charles Stansbury,” he says, flashing a smile with prominent canines. “How do you do?”
A chill goes up my spine. The combination of his sharp teeth, gray hair, and wiry build give the unnerving impression that I’ve stepped into a wolf’s den. However, if I’m to win against Daniel and Annan, I’ll need a predator’s ferocity on my side.
Steeling my nerve, I clasp his hand firmly. “Margaret Knight. Pleased to meet you.”
I introduce Eliza, and we sit at the table. “My assistant has briefed me on the particulars of your inquiry,” says Mr. Stansbury, glancing over a page of notes. “If I understand correctly, you invented a machine for making paper bags. While you were in the process of preparing your patent application, a fellow by the name of Annan copied and patented the design with the aid of your former coworker.”
“That’s right,” I reply. Eliza nods emphatically.
I brace myself for a skeptical look. I garnered plenty during my rounds of law firms. But Mr. Stansbury merely nods toward the box. “That, I presume, is your machine. Would you demonstrate it for me?”
“Of course,” I say, hastening to remove its oilcloth.
Within moments, it’s out on the table. “This is the iron model we made for my patent application,” I say, turning the crank. “The original prototype was of wood.”
I’m about to explain its workings when Mr. Stansbury says, “Now if you please, Miss Knight, would you take the machine apart?”
I blink at the unexpected request. “I can try,” I say uncertainly. “It’ll be difficult without tools.”
Eliza jumps up. “Lincoln and Graham’s isn’t far. I can dash over and—”
Mr. Stansbury whips out a large toolbox from a cabinet. “I believe these should suffice,” he says, displaying its contents. “Disassemble what you can and place the pieces in the tray there.”
As he sets it beside my model, his wolfish gaze scrutinizes me, and I realize: It’s a test.
I smile. If that’s the case, I’ll take the opportunity to prove myself. “Very well.”
Starting with the side folders, I dismantle the machine. Having built it from scratch twice, taking it apart is child’s play. As I deftly remove pieces, I tell Mr. Stansbury each one’s name and purpose.
I’m one quarter of the way done when he stops me. “That will be sufficient, Miss Knight. If you’ll allow me.”
He takes the tray. For a moment, he regards the neatly placed parts as if studying their design. Then he gives them a rough shake, startling Eliza and me both. “If you would, Miss Knight,” he says, handing back the now-jumbled pieces. “Please return them to their places.”
Eliza’s brow darkens, but I feign a bored air. “As you wish,” I say. “Forgive me if I’m not as swift with the reassembly. The pieces appear to have disordered themselves.”
Mr. Stansbury watches intently as I get to work. I welcome it. I don’t often get to show off before such an attentive audience. Although my pace is halved due to his hijinks, the machine comes together surely and steadily.
I’m in the homestretch, about to put together the side folder mechanism, when I stop short. “Mattie, what’s the matter?” says Eliza, as I duck under the table.
“The two bevel gears for the side folders are missing,” I say, readjusting my glasses to scan the carpet. “Mr. Stansbury, do you have a light?”
“Is this what you’re looking for?” The attorney extends a hand and opens it. The two gears lie in his palm.
I sag in relief, grateful I don’t have to comb his rug for lost pieces. Eliza, however, flushes with anger. “Mr. Stansbury, that wasn’t very nice,” she snaps.
“Perhaps not,” he replies, returning the parts to the tray. “But you’re not looking for someone ‘nice.’ You want a lawyer who will prevail against the thief who stole your invention, don’t you?”
“That’s true,” I reply, as Eliza deflates sullenly in her chair. “And I imagine you want a client who meets particular standards.” I tap a bevel gear with a finger.
He grins, pointed teeth gleaming. “I’ve a hard-earned reputation for success. I’m not risking that on an infringement lawsuit for an inventor who doesn’t know her own machine.”
“But you don’t consider a female client a risk?”
Mr. Stansbury doesn’t bat an eye. “You’re not the first woman to seek my counsel, Miss Knight, although admittedly you’re the first to have claimed to have invented an industrial machine. Twenty years in this profession have taught me women are just as capable of inventing as men, even if they don’t always take credit for it.”
I cock my head. “What do you mean, don’t always take credit?”
“I can’t give specifics,” he replies, lacing his fingers over his lap. “So let’s pretend a woman of standing invents something with the potential for profit. But within her circle, associating with a patent is so uncouth as to be unladylike. Hence, to uphold her good name yet reap the financial benefit, she may contrive with her husband or brother to patent the invention under his name.”
My stomach turns. Crediting my achievement to another would be unbearable as hacking off a limb. Eliza, though, lowers her gaze sadly. “I can see that happening,” she murmurs.
“However, for those who wish to patent under their own names, the door is wide open, and I’ve assisted dozens of women in obtaining patents,” Mr. Stansbury continues. “As far as the Patent Office is concerned, so long as your application is in good order and you have indeed invented something new, your sex doesn’t matter. Unfortunately, in a patent infringement lawsuit, your sex will count against you, Miss Knight.”
Eliza and I prick up our ears as the attorney’s demeanor turns serious. “They say Justice is blind, but she is administered by men who are not. It would be different if the invention in question were, say, a new type of corset. But because it is an industrial invention, your claim will draw double the skepticism than if you were a man.”
“I’m prepared for that,” I reply. “I’ve had plenty of experience convincing scoffers of my mechanical abilities.”
“Then prepare yourself for one additional prejudice. Mr. Annan has a patent for the machine. Meaning he officially holds credit for its invention. That stacks the odds in his favor and places the burden of proof entirely on your shoulders.”
I toss my head. “Fine by me. I got notes and witnesses to prove what I did.”
He smiles. “I like your spirit, Miss Knight. Indeed, you’ll need such spirit to endure the gauntlet known as the courtroom.” He taps the tray. “My little test was no doubt unpleasant, but an opposing lawyer will subject you to worse under cross-examination. If you were a shrinking violet, I’d tell you to give up and go home. But from what I can see, you are capable of demonstrating you know this machine as intimately as its inventor should.”
Hope flutters in my chest. “So do you think I can win?”
Mr. Stansbury strokes his beard. “This is only an initial consultation, but if you can indeed produce credible witnesses and dated notes detailing your inventing process, winning is a distinct possibility, provided you build your case properly. That means filing all pertinent legal documents and presenting the evidence in the most convincing way.”
“Which would be your job if she engages you,” says Eliza. “What would be your fee, Mr. Stansbury?”
I hold my breath as he mulls it over. “I estimate the paperwork and preparation for the trial to take three days of my time. The hearing itself will take at minimum two days. As such, I’d charge five days for a retaining fee. My daily rate is one hundred dollars, so five hundred dollars.”
The sum shatters my wits. As I reel, Eliza stammers, “Would you consider l-lowering the fee? Perhaps for a share of f-future profits?”
“No.” The reply is without malice, yet brooks no argument. “I am a patent attorney, not an investor. Not to mention, less than half of patents issued actually attain commercial profit. And my rate, by the way, is standard for all my clients. If you inquire with other firms, you’ll find their charges are comparable.”
“That may be the case, Mr. Stansbury,” I say, finally regaining the power of speech, “but five hundred dollars is … considerable. May I have time to think this over?”
“Of course. This is not a decision to be made lightly. And I should mention, you are allowed to represent yourself in court, but that would be akin to performing surgery upon yourself. You save money up front, but come out the worse for it. Because in an infringement lawsuit, the prevailing party has the right to demand reimbursement for legal fees from the losing one.”
My stomach sickens at the implications, and I swallow hard. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As I struggle not to be ill, Mr. Stansbury adds, “One last thing, Miss Knight. Do not drag your heels. Infringement charges must be submitted in what the court deems a timely manner. In other words, if you do not file within a half year of Mr. Annan’s August patent date, consider your opportunity for retribution gone.”