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Somewhere just south of York, Lady Ruth Constance Chapelstone came to the conclusion that travelling by train did not agree with her.
Of course, she had never left her home city of Newcastle before, so she had no idea if the train was the offensive factor, or if it was simply travel itself. As her eyes ached and her stomach churned, however, she decided that the question of what exactly was offending her was immaterial. She was offended, and that was enough to turn her mood sour.
Her hair clips felt as if they were trying to dig into her skull, and her nose couldn’t help but pick up even the slightest smell. Her only source of comfort was the familiar pressure of her corset tight around her middle, grounding her. But the comforting effect was slightly muted by the fact that the bright yellow colour of her dress was now too much for her eyes.
“How much longer until we reach London, Uncle Thomas?” she asked as soon as he stepped into the private carriage. Despite being her uncle, he was only a few years older than her. However, because he shared her dark hair and eyes — contrasted by fair skin — they were often mistaken for siblings and could easily pass as twins, probably because Ruth almost entirely took after her father. The only thing she inherited from her mother was thick, almost unmanageable, hair and a full figure.
“We are still in the north, my dear,” he pointed out as he took the tray he was carrying and placed it down on the table between them.
Oh good, thought Ruth, he brought tea.
Someone else should have probably brought them the tea, in all honesty, but Ruth was in no fit state to deal with strangers, and her uncle was more than accommodating. An inventor’s disposition, he called it, simply taking it as the flip side to his greatest discovery.
When they had been younger, Thomas had taken to inventing for a while, as he had seen what the industrial revolution was doing for Britain and he wanted to play a hand in shaping the future.
He had been lousy at it, of course. Ruth had told him as much when she had visited his workshop. After a few hours of ravenously pouring through his textbooks while he brought her tea and biscuits, she had managed to fix up the invention that he had spent weeks stumped over, completely unable to get it to work as intended. After that, Thomas had given up inventing, fancying himself an entrepreneur instead, much to the chagrin of his father. Ruth had taken over his workshop, bearing some of the family disappointment so that it was no longer Thomas’ sole domain. After all, the workshop was no proper place for a lady.
It didn’t take Thomas long to realise that he could make them both rich by selling Ruth’s inventions. Not that they needed the money, of course; that was simply Thomas’ way of keeping score.
At her mother’s insistence, no one knew that Ruth was behind Thomas’ inventions. Thomas said that it was a shy friend of his — nicknamed The Owl for his penchant for only working at night — giving Thomas the perfect excuse not to introduce the inventor to his friends.
Much to everyone but Ruth and Thomas’ surprise, it wasn’t long before The Owl had the attention of Queen Victoria herself. As far as Ruth was concerned, it was inevitable. Her engine designs were far superior to anything the Crown had in operation, and her dirigible schematics were not only technically impressive, but far more eye-pleasing than anything currently in use.
If there was one thing The Owl had become notorious for, it was style. Ruth’s penchant for fashion and design was as impressive as her knack for invention. It was simply a shame that nothing else held even the slightest interest for her. Her mother always said that, had they not had servants, Ruth would have no chance at survival.
Ruth briefly wondered if air travel would have been easier on her stomach, or, if not, if there was some way for her to alter her designs to make it so that it was.
Her attention was drawn back to the present as Thomas flipped the switch at the side of the bulky mechanism cradling the teapot. It made a whirring noise as it lifted up the pot and began to pour the tea, causing the pot to clink against the cup in a way that made Ruth whine in protest. Her ears were exceptionally delicate. As was the rest of her, for that matter.
“This tea of yours had better not offend my palette,” Thomas told her as he passed her a cup.
She ignored the sugar in favour of milk. She couldn’t stand sugar in her tea, and only even used the milk to cool it so that she didn’t burn herself. She had a tendency to forget how hot tea was in her eagerness to drink it.
“It’s not my fault if your palette is easily offended.”
He raised an eyebrow at that, and Ruth had to concede that it had been hypocritical of her. While she had broad taste in tea, she was very particular with her food. In fact, the cook at home had resigned herself to making the same three dishes for Ruth, with no variance. She supposed that was a luxury she may not be granted in London. Even if she had the same dish there, it probably wouldn’t be right.
She drank the tea immediately after adding her milk. It was still hot enough to provide her with the scorching sensation she craved, while not burning her insides. The ginger in the chai helped to settle her stomach.
Thomas pulled a face.
“Not to your liking?” she asked as she poured herself a second cup.
“No,” he told her firmly. “But it is no matter. I am far less interested in the topic of tea than the topic of what great invention The Owl has to show my contacts in London. They have already seen your previous work, so we’ll need something fresh and exciting.”
“I have actually been working on something. For Grandfather.”
“For my father?” Thomas asked with a raised eyebrow as Ruth brought out a series of schematics.
“I have a prototype in one of my cases,” she assured him as she found the correct piece of paper, “but this is the design.”
“It’s... a leg.”
“Yes. A fully functioning, clockwork leg.”
“And how exactly would the leg know when to move and when to remain still?”
Ruth sighed into her, again empty, teacup. “That is what I am still working on. I have several ideas. Perhaps a control of some sort. I could possibly program it to move as the stump moves in a specific way. I have also been reading about the possibility of measuring the information sent by the brain to the limbs. I could perhaps make use of that...”
“Careful not to get too carried away with theoretical ideas,” Thomas reminded her, as he so often did. Ruth never listened, but he kept reminding her anyway.
“When will we be in London?” she asked again, eager to be off the train.
“I’ll find you some more tea,” was Thomas’ only reply.