“I must g-go out there,” Mr. Dowling declared in his stuttering, monotone voice.

How dare these men! Men who had no business here. Men flush with stupidity, hatred, and inebriated courage. How dare they threaten people’s lives like this? I felt an old familiar anger rising up in me; I could feel my face grow warm with it. It was the same feeling I’d experienced with Lord and Lady Bankes, Mr. Wadsworth, and during the first encounter with Ogre. I would not stand for this any longer.

“No. You will not.” I rushed from the study, catching Thomas and Mr. Dowling off guard but they soon hurried after me. I could hear Mr. Dowling with his rattling limp hurrying to catch up, not far behind. I ignored them. I veered to the fireplace and grabbed an iron poker, then hurried to the entrance hall. Thomas grabbed hold of my arm for a moment, but I slipped from his grasp and threw open the main doors. I would not be dissuaded, I would not be stopped.

“Take your hands off him!” I screamed, raising the poker with both hands.

“M’Lady,” Ogre sneered with derision, “been hopin’ we’d meet again,” then pointed toward Mr. Dowling who was struggling to keep up. “How about the two of ya come on over to me and I’ll teach some proper manners for a woman.”

“No! You shall let that boy go! And you shall not lay a hand on Mr. Dowling or myself!”

“I don’t see the constable lurkin’ ‘bout. Who’s to stop us?”

“Me!” I declared.

He laughed, tossing the boy aside. To my relief, he scurried to safety. Though now Ogre and his goblins were advancing on us and my poker was beginning to feel inadequate. I felt Mr. Dowling’s hand touch my arm.

“My Lady, please g-go. I will slow them d-down.”

His voice was as calm and monotone as ever despite the stutters, which seemed rather inappropriate for our current predicament.

“No,” I said.

“Wish I had thought to grab a weapon,” Thomas said beside me. “As far as last stands go, mine may be short lived.”

Ogre, far outpacing his goblins, was soon upon us. I felt then a rush I had never known before. Time seemed to slow ever so slightly. I noted the inky black shadows cast by the roaring orange and yellow flames consuming the stables. The ash and sparks drifting through the air like snowflakes on a winter’s night; and Ogre’s face, it was a twisted and shadowy mask contorted with rage. In that moment he resembled his namesake more than I ever thought possible.

I watched as firelight flickered from the blade he gripped in his right hand raised high over his head. Mr. Dowling step forward with a rattling creak and readied to block the blow. I heard the horrific screech of metal upon metal as the knife easily penetrated Mr. Dowling’s coat and canvas skin. The blade became lodged in the skeletal frame of his arm, causing Ogre to jerk at the knife with all of his might. Ogre then brought his fists crashing down upon Mr. Dowling’s head and shoulders. Under the ferocity of the blows, one of Mr. Dowling’s legs buckled at the strangest angle. Suddenly, Thomas threw himself into Ogre while Mr. Dowling crumpled in a heap on the dewy grass before me. Ogre shoved Thomas easily aside.

What happened next surprised even me. I saw myself. Or rather I felt as though time itself had nearly stopped and I had stepped outside of my own body. All sound seemed to fade away. I watched in silence as I let out a silent cry of anguish and rage, pushed now beyond all comprehensible words. My grip on the cast iron fire poker tightened. I brought it back across my body. Ogre was just turning his attention to me, smiling as he left the crumpled forms of Mr. Dowling and my brother. I saw myself, with a sudden fury and sure movements swing the poker right around and cracked into the side of Ogre’s skull. It’s sharp point drawing a frightful gash of blood down and across his face.

Once more I was back inside my own body. Ogre was reeling before me, wavering and seeming dazed beyond cognition. Then through the smoke, and people scrambling to fight the fire, our carriage thundered into view. Mr. Harlow drove with an intensity I had never seen in the old man’s face. At that moment, I decided to do all I could to see the man knighted for his efforts. The goblins dived back out of the way though Ogre wasn’t quite fast enough and saw him clipped by the charging horses as he was knocked aside.

“I said the servant’s entrance,” Father bellowed, swinging open the door. I found Thomas was beside me supporting Mr. Dowling with one arm and pushing me toward the carriage and my father’s outstretched hand with the other. Turning back, I helped drag Mr. Dowling and then Thomas into the carriage. Before we even had the door closed Mr. Harlow had the horses racing away from the fires and the carnage behind us.

Thomas collapsed in the seat beside me. Mr. Dowling was slumped in the seat opposite us with father and Dr. Blyth, who was anxiously surveying the damage to the mechanical frame. We could yet hear his various gears clinking and clanking in a most disconcerting manner.

“Mr. Dowling… Peter…?” I asked quietly. I feared what would come next.

“I’m… still ticking,” Mr. Dowling rasped. I couldn’t help as a small laugh escaped me at the seeming ridiculousness of his reply.

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“Dear sister,” Thomas began soberly, “Peter can be excused his excessive gallantry but you! Have you forgotten? Discretion is always the better part of valor.”

Father looked displeased.

“What were you thinking? You could have been killed by that monstrous brute.”

“I was thinking I had to save young Timothy.”

“The stable boy?”

“Yes. They’d taken him.”

“Is he all right?”

“Yes, he escaped.”

“And Mr. Dowling and I were thinking about saving my sister,” Thomas added.

“Though I see she was the only one sensible enough to arm herself before heading into that fray,” Father said gesturing to the fire poker now resting on my lap.

“I appreciate your intention at the very least, both of you,” I said to them.

My father looked between Mr. Dowling, Thomas, and finally me. At last he said, “Tonight you all… You were are all incredibly foolish, but… you were also incredibly brave. I’m proud of all of you, and I know your mother would be especially proud of you both.”

“But where are we to go now?” Thomas asked.

“We’re hoping the Royal Society will be willing to take us in. Mr. Dowling is in sore need of repairs and rest. I believe we all are,” Dr. Blyth explained.

As relief settled in, we prepared for a long journey to London. I watched my hands slowly stop shaking as my heart beat returned to its normal pace. Then exhaustion set in and before long I was fast asleep.

__________________________

To our great delight we arrived in London to discover we had gained celebrity. A Woman’s Voice had been reprinted and sold throughout the city. Here we found great support for Mr. Dowling. As for Father Joseph and his ardent rhetoric, given the violence and mayhem it had caused, especially to a Lord’s holdings, the Church was left with little option but to quietly remove Father Joseph from all attentions. Blame was laid upon the unstable men who had an imbalance of passions and whom did not represent the church. They said they would continue to investigate the religious and moral implications of Dr. Blyth’s revolutionary medical procedure but would trust, for now, upon the evaluation offered by Father Hughes who had for so long seen to the welfare of Mr. Dowling’s immortal soul. The Times even reported that Queen Victoria herself had declared no harm was to come to Mr. Dowling, who she referred to as “a marvel of modern science and medicine.”

The Royal Society took in Dr. Blyth and Mr. Dowling while Father, Thomas, and I were given lodging by our cousins, Lord and Lady Annesly. It was there we received a telegram from Rothsfield. Clifton Manor had been burned. Luckily, no one was harmed but the stable was destroyed and the house was badly damaged. Three men were arrested for inciting the violence, and I suspected I knew exactly who they were, along with a number of other protestors. They were currently awaiting their trials. Father was devastated at the loss of the manor that had been home to our family for generations, but swore that it would be rebuilt.

Thomas occupied himself with the business of our newspaper. With the success of our first issue in London, he found a number supporters willing to invest in it, including our cousins. He soon sent to Bristol for Mr. Ridley and his sons who found themselves running a much larger printing shop in London, with an entire staff to manage.

I spent much of my time visiting with Mr. Dowling. His condition was worsening. Though repairs had been made to his mechanical body, his arm repaired and his leg reset, his speech was becoming ever more labored and he continued to experience unexplained malfunctions throughout his body. His rattling, which I had come to find so comforting, was silenced as he lost the ability to move under his own power. Dr. Blyth and the Royal Society were at a loss to correct the problem.

“It seems to be more than the damage he sustained at the manor. The repairs should be sufficient. It seems more likely that the connections between his brain and the machinery are not holding. His body is being rejected.”

“He’s dying?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry. After all you did for us…”

“I would do it all again.”

I sat with Mr. Dowling everyday. I discussed our plans for the paper and how much support he was receiving from the people of London. He occasionally responded, but speech was difficult and took time. I held his cold metal hand. Perhaps it was silly. I know he could not feel it, but he seemed to appreciate it nevertheless.

“Lady F-Fair-f-fax…” he began one day.

“Please, Mr. Dowling, you may call me Abi.”

“A-A-bi. C-c-call me… Peter…”

“Of course… Peter.”

“I’m… scared…”

“No, Peter, you musn’t be. Dr. Blyth and the others will-“

“I c-c-can feel it… this time…”

“You’ll be alright. You’ll see,” I said. I paused but he said nothing. “How about this, when you are working properly again we’ll take a small holiday, I daresay you’ve earned one. Where shall we go?”

“I... don’t know.”

“How about the lake district? Have you ever been?” I asked.

“N-ever.”

“Oh it’s beautiful. My mother took me once when I was very small. Crystal blue waters, tall craggy peaks. Such sights as to reinvigorate the mind and soul. Just the thing. We’ll go together. Someday soon.”

“I’d… l-ike that… very m-much, Abi.”

But that day never came. A different one came first. A day I had been dreading and when that day finally came he managed to simply say, “I… m-mu-must… g-g-go.”

I smiled through tears and said, “ I shall miss your rattling bones.”

I like to think I saw a smile.

“Thank…. you…” he said almost inaudibly.

“I should be thanking you,” I told him. “You came into my life so suddenly and changed it so completely. I have a purpose now, because of you. The world can be a frightening and ugly place, but it can also be beautiful and miraculous. I will see that you are remembered. And I swear that others never suffer a similar fate. I will speak for those who cannot and I will confront ignorance and bigotry in all its forms, because of you. I will never, ever forget you.”

I don’t know if he heard all I had to say. He never spoke again.

Mr. Dowling was buried in London. Father, Thomas, Dr. Blyth and I led the procession. The streets were filled with mourners and onlookers. As we passed, they held high the latest issue of A Woman’s Voice. It was our sixth issue. I had written Peter Dowling’s obituary for it.

After the funeral, we returned to Clifton Manor to assess the damage. It was not beyond repair, but it would take time.

“We will rebuild,” Father said again before returning to the carriage.

Thomas and I lingered outside the manor’s charred skeleton.

“It’s just a house,” he said. “We are still here. And we won.”

“It doesn’t feel like we won.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

“But I do have a voice.”

“And people who want to hear it.”

“So let us do some good.”