correcting the problem, would be nothing short of uncivilised.”
I acceded her point, and an hour later we reconvened in my sitting room, which, as she observed, more resembled an overstocked and chaotic library.
Much to my surprise and confusion, Miss Stark not only appeared considerably younger—perhaps a couple of years my junior—now the grime was scrubbed from her, but had also dressed herself as a man, in trousers and white shirt, waistcoat and a light jacket. I’d heard of “bloomerism,” of course—it was much discussed in newspaper articles about female suffrage—but I’d never witnessed it “in the flesh,” so to speak.
“The bloomerists wear trousers as a protest against the inconveniences of women’s attire,” my guest explained as she painfully manoeuvred her twisted form into an armchair by the fireplace. “For if a lady fails to hold up her skirts while out walking, the hems are soon soaked in all manner of foul substances. Yet they are made from such heavy linen that, after hoisting them up for half an hour, one’s wrist cramps and aches abominably. But this is beside the point. I’m no bloomerist. I chose this attire simply because it better suits the life I have been forced to lead.”
I also sat. “Let us begin again, Miss Stark. You were telling me about it—your life—and that you came by your education in relation to a thing called an autocarriage.”
“Yes, a conveyance invented by the late Lord Hufferton—Sir Philip—and, as you correctly supposed, similar to Étienne Lenoir’s Hippomobile.”
“Powered by a combustion engine, then?”
“No. The Lenoir engine consumes fuel inefficiently, is exceedingly noisy, and is forever overheating and seizing up. Sir Philip employed a steam engine instead. Have you heard of Thomas Rickett?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Of Buckingham. He invented a steam plough some twenty years ago, which inspired the Marquess of Stafford to commission a steam carriage from him. The machine Rickett constructed was a three-wheeler, with a rear-mounted coal-fired boiler and a two-cylinder engine. Power was transmitted via a chain connected to the right-hand rear wheel. Sir Philip employed a very similar design, but introduced into it a horizontal double-acting steam-powered beam engine, gave the vehicle four wheels, and connected the chain to the middle of the rear axle. The front seat could hold three passengers, the one in the middle steering with a tiller, accelerating by means of a regulator lever, and braking via a foot pedal.”
“Fascinating! My goodness, Miss Stark, you appear to have a firm grasp of mechanical design, though I suppose that’s to be expected of anyone brought up in Hufferton’s orbit. But, I say, while I knew he collected such wonders for his museum, I had no idea he’d designed one himself. So this is the carriage his son took?”
I’d supplied my guest with a fresh glass of wine. She imbibed a little, nodded, and said, “Rupert was a dreadfully disobedient child, forever getting into trouble. In 1870, he was thirteen and I was five. My parents and I lived in a tiny cottage on the estate. I used to stay with my mother in the manor’s kitchen until it was too dark for my father to be working outside. He’d then come to fetch me home. One evening, as he and I were crossing the grounds, the autocarriage came careening toward us, out of control, with Rupert at the tiller. It hit us square on, killing my father outright and breaking my back and legs.”
I pondered this disaster for a few moments, then murmured,
“‘When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars
And he will make the face of heav’n so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.’”
After a further pause, Miss Stark said, “I loved my father dearly. That is a very appropriate quote.”
“It’s from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.”
“I know. And I’m much impressed that you chose to reflect upon my loss rather than the calamity of my injuries. You accurately detected how I was most wounded that horrible day. Such power of insight must make you a very good priest, though I’m intrigued that you chose to recite Shakespeare rather than the Bible.”
I shifted uneasily in my chair. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’m a very good priest at all. When I quote from the Bible, I rarely feel that it’s truly coming from my heart. But let’s not talk about me. Please continue with your story; I’m thoroughly captivated by it.”