Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology Read Free Page B

alone, it all runs together like a watercolor wash of grays and browns; overlaid by the stinging, acrid, cloying stench of coal oil and enterprise.
    Then, once returned to the only home that remained to me, more blur, more muddled, muddied color. It felt a dream. I cannot pinpoint when the insanity overtook me—for only thus can I explain it: a sort of grief-crazed delirium which plunged my soul into a purple haze, gripped my heart, and stole my breath. I can scarcely recall conscious choice, until one day—one revelatory day—the derangement receded.
    I came to myself standing in a bedchamber at the bungalow, staring at the woman passed out on the bed. Images of the previous night’s activities flashed through my head but otherwise failed to affect me. Instead of fire in my loins, I felt only disgust.
    The harsh morning light shone upon her, but I saw no stunning, exotic beauty, no object for sensual obsession. The illusion cleared and revealed a woman who appeared ten years my senior, prematurely aged by debasement and debauchery. Not even the thick mosquito netting surrounding her could soften the scene.
    Her face pressed into the bedclothes and drool dribbled from her mouth as she snored. Locks of her hair, tangled and wild, snaked over her face, around her throat and across her pillow. She sprawled across the mattress, the bed-linen knotted about her limbs. The room reeked of unwashed humanity.
    Driven by terror of my inescapable future, I fled down the path and flung myself into the sea, hoping it would somehow free me of the stench of my new bride.
    I swam until my muscles burned and my eyes smarted; until the pain blurred the image that Bertha Antoinetta Mason—Bertha Mason Rochester—had seared into my brain.
    After six weeks of matrimony, I could not explain why I had formed such an alliance. More still, as the weeks progressed, I grew ever more disconcerted with her aggression and unsettling propensities in our marriage bed.
    Returning to the house from the lagoon, as I strode around the veranda, the sound of voices coming through the open windows of Bertha’s bedchamber arrested my steps.
    “I tell you, Josie, the man has the touch. He sets me ablaze.”
    “Dat leedle toad, madame? Oh, no. How cood he?”
    Bertha laughed. “Not all men can be breeding studs, Josie.”
    “Eben so . . . I would nebbah—”
    “You do not understand, my girl. The man is an engineer . He makes a science of pleasure. I have never before had such a lover.”
    “And Meestah Rochestah?”
    “Mr. Rochester is a silly little boy, afraid of his own shadow.”
     “Den, why do ye let dat ape touch ye?”
    “Because Rottstieger is not here, wantwit. And Rochester—his physique surpasses Julian’s— all of Julian. He is not without promise.”
    “Den, ye muds let me hab Julian. You hab no fuddah use ub him.”
    “There you are wrong. Should I find the perfect man, with Herr Professor’s technique, Julian’s good looks, and Rochester’s stamina . . . well. Then , you could have my black. But until then, I require all three, especially since Rottstieger has been away for so long.”
    “But Rochestah—he will find ye out.”
    “Josie, one simply disappears into the cane fields, and Julian has such an appetite by noonday.”
    “Rochestah—he promise us a house een down—a proper English house. Ye must mek heem do eet.”
    “Patience, my girl. He cannot keep us here forever. After I have trained him up, then you shall have him for a plaything. And then, he shall be so wracked with his silly English guilt, I shall have him wrapped around my finger. He shall have you every night and do whatever I say all day long.”
    The maid tittered. “Oh, madam. I could nebbah like heem. He be far too oogly.”
    “Close your eyes, you simple thing. The face is not the business end of a man . . . or an ape for that matter.” A chuckle, deep and sensuous. “. . . and betimes one simply must have the beast.”

    I sat at