Episode 4: Letters

THE SCIENTIST: Experiment 31E, supplemental notes.

Date: October 9, 1843.

The experiment has stalled. I am still waiting on a specimen from Herman. He had promised a new one days ago. The Boy even went to meet him, but Herman was nowhere to be found. I sent the Boy to Herman’s usual haunts, giving messages to those who normally pass our communications along, but I have heard nothing back. I fear, after our last interaction…the incident with my Mask…that Herman may be delaying on purpose… I don’t know if he has plans to…but what plans could he have? He doesn’t know my real name, or where my manor is. What nefarious schemes could he concoct that could actually affect me…?

But there have been…other developments besides Herman’s disappearance. I received some letters of note today—three of them, and each one poses a new complication to this riddle I find myself muddled in.

The first, and most overtly concerning, came from Solomon and Rahul. It is written in Solomon’s hand but the two of them are a pair, and I can never imagine one writing a letter without the other’s input. He wrote:

My dearest Victoria—

[groan] Already things are off to a bad start if he’s using my full given name. But anyway—

My dearest Victoria,

I hope things are well at the manor. We must admit we are curious as to whether or not you have gleaned any interesting information from the panacea. We know you were hesitant, especially considering the absurd claim it came from Dippel, but we do hope that hasn’t put you off from your investigation.

It has been a few weeks, though, since we have heard from you. We don’t want to sound the alarm—you frequently disappear into your lab for weeks, if not months, without so much as a letter or message from John—but with the uncertain ingredients of the panacea, it does cause concern that something may have gone wrong. Are you quite well? The panacea should not have proven volatile, and yet… We do hope you send us a letter soon to appease our minds. Better yet, we’d love to see you come visit the shop. We are sure you are well, but do not let our darkest thoughts run amok, and send us some reassurance.

We hope to hear from you soon, especially to hear about your latest experiments. Send John our love, as always. And if you haven’t begun your poking and prodding at the panacea yet, we just want to wish you good luck and to take precautions. Be safe, Vic, be safe.

Sincerely,

Solomon

This letter…I wanted it on record because it is…quite curious. Repeated questions as to my health and safety. Asking me about my attempts at deciphering this mysterious panacea—the implication that something has gone wrong during my experiments. Asking me to come visit them—the second time they’ve requested a visit in person recently…they usually are content with messages passed along by the Boy, but no, suddenly they want to meet with me. Then ending on a warning to take precaution—be safe…be safe.

Never before have they shown such concern over my use of an ingredient obtained from them. I have purchased deadly poisons from Solomon before without so much as a single be safe, let alone two. This panacea is untried, but they told me only of the miracles it could perform. A few weeks without comment from me is not unheard of—it’s to be expected. Why should they be concerned?

Unless…unless there is something they aren’t telling me…

Is there something dangerous about this panacea? What information did they leave out as they touted its benefits?

Did they notice my reaction when I first grasped it? Did they experience the same thing? Is that the reason Rahul had worn gloves when handling it?

But if there was any potential danger from this panacea, why would they not tell me? Why would they let me take it out of the shop if they feared it could be harmful? Why would they only caution me now…?

They were so nervous in the shop…

Did they…want to harm me, but have now thought better of it? But…why? I thought we were on better terms than that. Or is there something else at hand here, some unknown quantity I can’t see?

Am I wasting my time with this panacea? If Solomon and Rahul are playing some game, I have no wish to play along. Perhaps this was a mistake. I have found no evidence to support that this even is a panacea…if anything, I’d say it’s a preservative, like what one might keep dead specimens in…except for that one ingredient I couldn’t identify… Is it a preservative as well? Should I spend my time chasing this mystery, or should I try finding a new ingredient elsewhere? But where would I even start…?

Unfortunately, I might not have the time to go following every lead that catches my eye…

The second letter is from Lydia:

Dear Miss Trafford

[sighs]

I do hate that she must keep up such formalities. Technically she works for me but…she practically raised me, like a second mother. She was the first to call me Vic… But I shouldn’t get distracted by such things.

Dear Miss Trafford,

I know you well enough to not worry when I do not hear from you more than once a year, but I am afraid I must disturb whatever has attracted your current focus to inquire about the estate. You had assured me it would not take long to find a buyer for your father’s manor and land, but if I am not much mistaken the calendar tells me it has been about two years now since you left for England to settle his family affairs. I know you are not the type to dawdle, and you prefer to get tasks done as soon as possible, but this seems like an excessive delay. Has there been difficulty in finding buyers? Has there been some unforeseen event that has caused you to linger?

I know I do not need to remind you where your home is. I do not need to remind you what you have left behind. I am certain I do not need to remind you of what you promised.

I am handling the estate on this side of the ocean well enough. No has asked any questions that I haven’t been able to provide adequate answers for. But the longer you delay, the more difficult it will be. You know that my name, my face, does not carry the same currency in this country as does yours, especially not in recent years. Harrison’s presidency has not been kind to either my mother’s or father’s people. The white folk of this town see my skin, the shape of my face, and that influences how well they hear my words. There are only so many lies I can tell.

For my part, I shall leave you assurances that things here are well and the experiment you left behind has continued as expected. I hope you are well and have not become distracted by a different experiment. You are so much like your father—and your mother—in that sense. But please, my dearest child, please tell me of your progress in settling your father’s estate. And if possible, please tell me when I can expect to see your bright and shining face again.

Your faithful friend and servant,

Lydia

[sighs]

I suppose I should have known that this long of a delay would garner suspicion. I had told her it might take some time to settle the Trafford estate in England, but that I would be back as soon as possible. But in trying to placate her worry I made the mistake of estimating, of reassuring her it would only be a year or so. I should never have given a time limit. Yet that was the only way she would let me come here unaccompanied…

I needed her to stay behind, to watch over the American estate, to watch over…to maintain the artifice we have crafted, the stories we had been forced to tell. She understood. She wanted to stay. She wanted to maintain her vigil…

But I knew she did not trust me.

My second mother…she knows me far too well…she knows I can’t let things go…

Does she realize I have been working on Experiment 31 again? Or does she think I have become distracted by something else?

How long will she playact ignorance until she tries to force my hand?

There is only so much she can do. She is my servant, after all, even if I have given her control over the estate—and she handles it better than I ever could. And she is unfortunately correct that people place more confidence in my words than in hers due to her being the daughter of a free Black man and a Patawomeck woman. But there are things she could do…things she could reveal…that would convince even the most biased individual.

Lydia has always been remarkably good at keeping secrets… Perhaps too good—she never much discusses her life before she met my mother, and I have wondered why. But she also knows just how to wield secrets when need be…which ones to use—and how to reveal them—to get what is desired… She knows…everything about me, my father, my mother… If she tells my secrets, my family’s secrets…

I’m afraid I do not have as much time as I had hoped to finish my endeavors. I can’t risk losing Lydia’s trust, for many reasons.

I must accelerate my plans, move my experiment forward as quickly as possible. Or I might not be able to finish at all…

I can’t be hindered by red herrings or unreliable associates. I can’t be bogged down by distractions. I am running out of time.

Unfortunately, the world is quite expert in throwing stones in my path.

I want no distractions, and yet… What we want and what we are given are sadly two very different things. There are certain matters I must attend to, an appearance I must maintain to keep eyes off my experiments and questions from outsiders to a minimum.

And that brings me to the third letter.

My father was…not a popular man of society. Not despised, just…he hated what was required of a man of his status. He was a scientist, same as me, and he much preferred spending his time in the lab or library than visiting his fellow members of society. It was what had drawn him to my mother, for she too would rather unravel the mysterious of the universe than attend the latest ball or call on vacuous daughters of the peerage. She told me she had once been interested in attending soirees and wearing the latest fashion, but she quickly grew bored when that aspect of society proved to be a “vapid cesspool of chauvinism and bigotry”—her words exactly.

My father had planned to go into academia. His parents had hoped he might pursue one of the more traditional routes of a second son—the Navy, the Church, the Law—but he had no interest in any of those. When his brother died, and he became the sole heir…he was not prepared for the life he was suddenly thrust into. Keeping up appearances, calling on and responding to the calls of ignorant fools simply because they hold the power of the upper classes…this did not appeal to him.

He hadn’t married, too obsessed with his experiments to find a wife. But as heir it was his duty to continue his family’s line. So he went to ball after ball, dancing with women who wanted his money, not his love.

He told me once that when he met my mother, he first mistook her as one of those same women. She had dressed in the finest gown, her hair and makeup perfectly styled according to the latest trend. She was older than him by a few years, an aging spinster of thirty he said…the same age I am now… He spoke with her because he knew it was polite, and she seemed new to these events—he had never seen her before. Her dark Italian looks had given her an exotic air, but the American accent threw him off. He was ready to dismiss her, to bow out of the conversation he had instigated out of a mere formality, when my mother suddenly demanded of him why he was working so much with silver. The experiment he had been working on, one concerning electrical conduction, had in fact involved silver. Perplexed, he asked how she had known. She told him she could see it in the discoloration of his gums, that he was poisoning himself with it and needed to stop. She asked if she could see his laboratory, to assess what he had done to expose himself to so much of the element, and then, well… They married, moved to a rural estate in America to seclude themselves from the high society they both despised, and had me.

They never visited England again, as far as I recall, and even when my father died, my mother did not cross the Atlantic to settle his affairs, to claim the estate that was her due. A cousin of his took care of it on her behalf until she saw fit to deal with it…except she never did. And when that cousin died, that left me with needing to finally oversee my inheritance.

My father had always described the formalities and expectations of the society he was born into as painful. He did not care for it one whit. My mother…she would sometimes get a wistful gleam in her eye, remembering fondly the first balls she had attended…whereas other times a shadow crept into her expression, and she spoke of disappointment, of how things were not what she had hoped they would be…that it wasn’t worth it, she would say. As long as they were in England, they had to play nice, to call on so-and-so because they had some title they’d inherited and therefore demanded respect they had not earned. It was one of the reasons my mother had insisted upon moving to America, and my father did not fight her. My father hated donning the mask of proper society just as much as I do. But he did it because he was the heir.

Now I’m the heir…

I can’t have people asking questions. I can’t have people gossiping about that Trafford girl locking herself away. I can only beg forgiveness for so long. My father may have died, but his family’s obligations did not.

The Carmichaels were apparently good friends of my father’s parents. When they paid a visit, or requested he pay one in return, he felt like he had no choice. They even sent him letters when he moved to America, keeping him apprised of the goings-on of the society he had happily abandoned and entreating that the next time he returned to his homeland that he call on them. Upon his death, my mother began to receive their correspondence instead, with the same request to visit whenever she next arrived in England.

I did not tell them of her death. I…I have told no one…only Lydia knows…but I handled their correspondence, copying my mother’s hand in my replies, forging her signature easily enough.

When I came to England…I have no idea how they found out. Perhaps the servants who had attended my deceased cousin told them I was coming. However it happened, I promptly received a request for me to visit them. I told them I was busy, how I must attend to my inheritance, which had been left long neglected. They allowed me this refusal of their hospitality, but they began sending me letters, just as they had sent my father and my mother. They have mentioned how they hope to see me while I am here settling affairs. They insist I can’t leave the country without introducing myself in person. They have even threatened—in of course, the most genial and proper of ways—of coming to the manor themselves, of asking to stay here, here.

And now…they have invited me…to a ball…

Dear Miss Trafford,

I hope you are doing wonderfully well here in England. I know your family once thrived here, so I truly hope you find your ancestral home to be as welcoming as they did. I know you grew up in America—and your mother’s family was initially from Italy—but I think it would be lovely if you thought of England as your new home.

I understand you are very busy with sorting out your inheritance. And I have heard rumors you let go most of the servants your cousin once employed. Are you in financial trouble, my dear? Our family is always willing to help if you are. Or did that many servants simply not suit your needs? I recall your father was uncomfortable with so many people milling about. He preferred a trimmer retinue as well. Do let me know if you need any assistance, my dear.

However, I know I personally cannot work so long without a rest. I think it would be best for your constitution if you got out of the manor and met with your peers. Perhaps some light exercise would do you good as well. And I have the perfect way for you to do just that. I shall be holding a ball in honor of my husband’s sixtieth birthday on October 27, and I must say it shall be quite the party. I have invited so many fascinating people I’m sure you would love to meet. There will be writers of prose and poetry—Tennyson, Shelley, and Dickens. There will be Major Charles Davinière of the Madras Army. He has astounding stories to tell of India as well as of his late mother, Dido Belle, who was born in the West Indies. I met her once when I was a child, ecstatic to see a fellow Black woman as part of the upper class. She was truly an astonishing woman. There will also be Lieutenant Le Vesconte, who fought in the China War and will be home briefly before dashing off to some new, daring adventure—that is, as long as the situation between the Bonaparte Empire and the République Française does not grow worse. This civil war among the French has being causing far too many problems across the continent from what I hear, with Napoleon III trying to gain allies by using his army as currency—did you hear what happened in Greece?—and then the Republic under the Orléans is simply flailing about. I know both sides of the conflict have tried to seek British allyship, but if worse comes to worse, I can’t say which one we’ll side with. Imagine, after all the battles against Napoleon I, we might very well end up defending his nephew!

But if we don’t all go to war soon, there will be plenty of handsome, eligible military men in attendance. We’ll even have several officers of the Discovery Service, including Captain James Clark Ross—if he isn’t too preoccupied with his new bride, that is. Sir John Barrow may even make an appearance, and I hear he hopes, if we don’t have to go to France’s aid, there may be another attempt at the Northwest Passage in a year or two. And Joseph Hooker, the naturalist who accompanied Captain Ross on his expedition south, shall be giving a lecture in the library about some of the specimens he retrieved from his voyage. After him will be another lecture by Charles Babbage, if he can get that glorified loom to work. If you’re anything like your father, I’m sure these last guests shall pique your interest.

Do let us know as soon as you can whether you shall be attending, but I’m sure if you don’t want to break this poor old woman’s heart that you shall be there, and I will finally get to see if you got your father’s ginger hair and freckles or your mother’s olive skin and black tresses. And if you can’t come, then perhaps I shall come to your manor myself and drag you out for a proper break from all that work. Hope to see you soon!

Sincerest regards,

Esther Carmichael

[sighs]

While Lady Carmichael isn’t wrong that I would be fascinated by scientific lectures from Hooker and Babbage, or to speak with Captain Ross about his expedition, she is quite wrong to think I would ever want to go to a ball. And I can see through all the fascinating guests she has invited for her true purpose. It doesn’t take much to notice her emphasis on handsome, eligible military men. I know why she’s inviting me. A thirty-year-old spinster…sole heir of a minor fortune…she must feel compelled to have me matched and married before my womb begins to wither. As if that’s all my life is meant for…

I have never felt…attracted to either sex. I know my mother was attracted to both, and my father, while shy and focused on his work, found women beautiful and enchanting. But I have never felt…a pull towards another in that way. I can acknowledge a handsome face, a shapely figure, but…I’ve never wanted…never wanted to marry…to so much as kiss or touch… I was raised on stories of the power of love and how it burns within, but never have I ever felt such a thing before.

I know I am different. I have always known. My mind does not function the same as others—too easily over-stimulated by sensory input, resistant to disruptions of my routine—but it has also granted me an insight into things I know others don’t have.

But this…this lack of attraction…I thought at first I simply had better things to do than chase the boys in town—or indulge any boys who wished to chase me—but eventually I realized…even if I had nothing better to do, I would still never give chase. And I have wondered…is this beneficial…or am I broken?

My mother said…

But I don’t feel broken… I don’t feel…wrong…

I feel different. That is all. I do not wish myself to change. I like the way I am.

But the world does not seem to appreciate my difference. And I am forced to hide it, to paste on a smile—a different kind of mask…

I have no desire to flirt with eligible bachelors. I have no desire to squeeze myself into a dress—not that I think dresses are ugly, but because I do not feel right in them. My sensitivity to textures and confining clothes certainly plays into part of that, but also there is too much required, too much upkeep, too many complications. Men’s clothes are somewhat simpler—although it does depend on the particular fashion, as I have seen men wearing corsets and attire as complicated as any woman’s gown. But I feel far more comfortable in men’s clothes than in women’s. Especially when those around me mistake me for a man…not because I want to be a man, I don’t think…but because they treat me differently. I have more freedom, I don’t have to follow the additional rules of society that woman must defer to, rules even more complicated than what is expected of men. Honestly, this concept of gender feels absurd to me. Why must we be treated different for how we are born? Why must we follow unspoken rules of what is expected of us simply because of what parts we have? If I could, I would toss the whole mess out the window, be genderless, not have to worry about how I am perceived one way or the other. But alas, that is one more aspect of society I must pretend I care about.

If I attend the Carmichael’s ball, I will have to dress as would be expected of a Miss Trafford. And I will have to pretend as if handsome military men are appealing as potential husbands.

I would rather eat coal.

But I can’t excuse myself from such an invitation after two years of begging off from Lady Carmichael’s requests. If I refuse her, she will come here…I don’t think I can stop her this time…

I can’t let her see the laboratory…

I believe I have been given a deadline now. Lydia is suspicious and wants me home. Lady Carmichael wants to see me by the end of the month, one way or the other. I need to leave before October 27, so I can give the Carmichael’s an acceptable excuse for not attending and to keep Lydia happy.

Which means I must move quickly. I will send the Boy to hunt down Herman again. And I will give this panacea one last try—hopefully my misgivings about Solomon and Rahul’s intentions prove false. I do not know what ingredient I might pursue if it fails to improve my formula—if it does nothing, then…then I shall return home without having completed the experiment. I could…I could continue it back home…Lydia didn’t notice when I first began tinkering with it again…it will just be more difficult with her around. I can’t drag dead bodies into my lab with her embroidering in the sitting room…

I have one last chance.

I must make this work.