Page 28 of Inventing Vivian

Chapter 7

My Lord,

I do hope you do not find the receipt of this letter to be in poor taste. I am aware of the impropriety of a young woman writing to a person of your position, but I could not rest until I expressed to you my sincerest gratitude for your endorsement of my invention for the International Exhibition of Industry and Science.

Entering the exhibition has been my dearest ambition for years, but finding a sponsor has been challenging. You can imagine my astonishment when Professor Wallis extended your offer. Even now, I cannot believe my good fortune.

I do not know how you heard of my invention, nor do I understand your reasoning for keeping your identity secret. I pray your patronage does not bring about embarrassment or discomfort in your personal affairs.

You have made my hope into a reality, my lord, and I am so very grateful. I promise to see to every detail and make my Personal Propulsion Vehicle as efficient as possible to ensure your trust in me and my work is not misplaced.

Yours faithfully,

Miss Vivian Kirby

As his carriage rolled over the London paving stones, Benedict read the letter for what must have been the twentieth time. It had arrived by messenger from Professor Wallis that afternoon, a few hours after the delivery of a dinner invitation from Vivian’s aunt.A happy coincidence that they arrived the same day, Benedict thought.

The invitation was for three days from now, but he wished it were sooner. Dinner with the Kirby family and Zhang Wei sounded so much more appealing than tonight’s engagement at the opera.

He studied the letter in his hand. The sincerity in Miss Kirby’s words touched him. It also confirmed his decision to extend his sponsorship, and to keep his identity a secret, was the right one. She would wonder at his motives if she knew he was behind the endorsement, thinking he was using the sponsorship to compensate her for repairing the fountain. Or she’d believe his patronage to be an act of pity. Neither was true. He’d seen what she was capable of and knew she deserved the opportunity to showcase her skill.

And a selfish part of him hoped to ease his guilt over the wrong done to her those many years earlier.

He set the page down in his lap, glancing through the carriage window. The streets were crowded, especially the closer he came to the docks. People stared openly as he passed, and Benedict could see the curiosity in their eyes as they watched his carriage, conspicuously painted with a crest on each door and a team of four matched Cleveland bays.

Benedict asked himself often what it was about Miss Vivian Kirby that so fascinated him. She was unconventional, he decided, making the other ladies he knew seem dull by comparison. Professor Wallis’s descriptions of her workshop and the contraptions throughout her house had both amused him and captivated his imagination. He’d interrogated the man for over an hour, wanting to know every detail. He’d especially wanted to learn of her reaction to the sponsorship and enjoyed the thrill of pleasure that moved through his middle at the professor’s description of her gratitude.

He looked back at the letter, studying Miss Kirby’s tidy penmanship and wishing the note had been longer. Anonymity had its benefits, the kind words of an intriguing young woman being one.

The smell of coal smoke was strong, and Benedict glanced through the window again. The carriage traveled down a road lined with beggars, street vendors, and smoke-belching factories. He must be nearly at his destination.

He folded the letter, slipped it back into its envelope, and put it in his coat pocket. A moment later, the carriage stopped, and he stepped out.

Mr. Quinton Thomas, Benedict’s new man of business, and Mr. Gallagher, the pottery’s foreman, met him at the factory gate. The gate was open, iron bars standing at attention with a large chain that held a lock. Benedict wondered for a moment, as he looked past at the brick buildings and smoky air, whether the gates were meant to keep people in or out.

As the men were about to enter, a group of women called out, catching Benedict’s attention. “Oatcakes!” They huddled around a small stove, over which a griddle sizzled. The women were old and wretched-looking, their clothes ragged and their faces red with perspiration from the griddle’s steam.

“I apologize, my lord,” Mr. Gallagher said when he saw Benedict looking. “Right nuisance they are. Too old for factory work, you see. I’ll drive them off.”

“Wait,” Benedict said as the foreman started toward the women. “They’re not a nuisance, Mr. Gallagher.” He felt a swell of pity that the women could so easily be dismissed. “I fancy an oatcake. Would either of you care for one as well?” He stepped up to the women, inhaling the aroma of the cakes. They smelled rather nice, especially when compared to the smoke and factory fumes surrounding them.

“Oatcake, my lord? One penny,” one of the old women said in a raspy voice, looking at him through cloudy eyes. Her face was wrinkled, her teeth missing, and her fingers bent. He imagined she’d worked hard until her body could no longer manage factory work and she’d had to find another way to earn a living. He thought of how the elderly members of the Hunan village were treated in comparison. They were taken care of and revered, sought after for their wisdom. He’d often played mahjong or taken a meal with one of the village elders. And doing so had been considered a privilege.

“Three, please, madam,” he said.

Using her wooden tool, the woman scraped the flat cake off her griddle, folding it into a roll. She slid it onto a board with the other cakes. Another woman offered it toward them.

Mr. Gallagher and Mr. Thomas glanced at Benedict as if they were uncertain.

He took one of the cakes, and they followed suit.

The morsel was hot in his fingers. Benedict took a bite. The oatcake tasted like a hearty oat pancake. It wasn’t half bad. “Delicious,” he said, putting a handful of coins into the woman’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you, my lord.” She held the coins tightly against her chest, and he was pleased to see a smile on her aged face.

Benedict tipped his hat. “Good day to you, ladies,” he said. And the three men entered the factory gates.

The pottery yard bustled with activity and noise and smoke. Two large brick kilns stretched as high as castle turrets on one end of the compound. Their heat was felt dozens of meters away. People hurried between the smaller buildings, some pushing wheeled carts filled with coal. Others carried pails of water or balanced boards that held unfinished cups or bowls.

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