Penny Dreadful and the Machines

"And nor will you," said Major Virtue, a flash of irritation crossing his brow, "for he is covered by immunity, of the diplomatic kind. We were able to confiscate his materials, and how he howled when we did. But we could take no further action against the cad."

"However, you may rest assured, Miss Dreadful," said Commodore St George, "that someone higher than we spoke to someone higher than he. He is persona non grata, and in foul odour in Vienna, too."

"We have heard," said Miss Burlington, with an impish smile that made her look more thirty than forty, "that he is now carrying on some most important diplomatic work as the Austro-Hungarian Consul on the island of Pohnpei."

"Where?" said Penny.

"Southern Pacific," said Commodore St George, "I put in there once on a cruise in HMS Triumph, back in '79. Tiny place, miles from anywhere, only a few thousand inhabitants. Micronesians, mostly. Some whalers stop in there, but otherwise there's no contact with the outside world."

"Still," said Penny, "I can imagine him sitting on a golden beach, drinking a tropical cocktail..."

"He'll be lucky," said the Commodore, with a twinkle in his eye, "the place is one the wettest on the planet. Buckets down there, all the time. Rain so hard I had to wear a helmet. Worse than Manchester."

At that Penny had to stifle a giggle, and the others appeared entertained, too -- the urbane Count von Lipschitz, abandoned on a south Pacific rock and it wasn't even a tropical paradise. And if Penny felt a pang of sympathy for poor Sebastian, well that would serve him for seeking to meddle with an Englishman's cup of tea.

"And speaking of those higher than we," said Miss Burlington, "you may believe that your singular contribution to the security of our nation has come the attention of some most esteemed personages."

"Regretfully," said Commodore St George, "your actions may not be admitted, though you must be assured that they are appreciated. And as such, a certain member of the cabinet, who holds the foreign portfolio..."

Penny realised that he could only mean the Marquess of Salisbury, no less.

"...has authorised us to present to you a small token of the gratitude Her Majesty's government feels towards you."

The Commodore held out a dark box to Penny, somewhat larger than a matchbox. Taking it, Penny lifted the lid to reveal a beautiful cameo of Britannia, in marble onyx on a crimson background, seated with her shield and trident, the border in gold set with pearls. Penny gasped as she saw it, and glanced around dewy-eyed.

"I am sorry, Penny, that it cannot be more," said Miss Burlington.

"Yes, indeed. Your selfless actions averted disaster," said Major Virtue.

Following a moment of reflection the party resumed their good humour, joking about Count von Lipschitz's sufferings, and then for an hour or two, the conversation ranged further.

"And what are your plans, Penny, for the coming days?" said Miss Burlington finally.

"It is about time I turned my attention to my investments," said Penny, "I have informed the Robotic Mining Equipment Consortium that I intend to take a more hands-on interest than my uncle did."

"Ambrose Lister is the Chief Executive there, I believe," said Miss Burlington.

"Why yes, he is."

"Have a care, Penny, in that direction," said Miss Burlington, "for I know him of old, and he is not entirely scrupulous in his dealings with the fairer sex."

"How...?" said Penny, and Major Virtue pricked his ears up at that, too.

"How do I know him?" said Miss Burlington, continuing as Penny nodded, "he attended Cambridge with my cousin, and he stayed at my parents' house in Suffolk on more than one occasion. I will only say that we found it necessary to ensure the housemaids were not left alone with him."

"He tried no liberties with you, I hope?" said Penny, disgust and outrage competing in her voice.

"I was too adept with the hockey stick for him to essay an attempt in my direction. I will say, though, that you must beware of wandering hands unless, of course, age and social status have moderated his behaviour."

At this Major Virtue quietly snorted in derision, before glancing over at the clock on the mantelpiece.

"I regret to say, Miss Dreadful, Miss Burlington," he said, "that time draws on. If I am to escort you home, Miss Dreadful, we must look to leave."

The party thus broke up, with Major Virtue walking Penny to the West Dulwich railway station where they caught the last service to Victoria. As they sat in a first-class compartment Major Virtue began to talk of his time in Nyasaland, describing the nights he spent beneath African skies, and the villagers and their customs, so unlike anything familiar to a European. Penny listened, outwardly attentive, and thus encouraged, the Major continued.

"But it was lonely," said Major Virtue eventually, gazing earnestly at Penny, "though of course the troops were fine fellows. But they couldn't make up for the finer virtues that ladies bring to society. And so many years overseas on Her Majesty's service has deprived me of the chance to seek out a lady of noble bearing to accompany me as we head into the future. I wonder, Miss Dreadful, if..."

"Ah," said Penny, "look. We are arrived at Victoria and the train terminates. I thank you, Major, for your diverting discourse."

They alighted, the Major cursing the fates that had interrupted what was to be his confession of ardent admiration, and they walked to the entrance where Penny took a hansom cab home. The Major watched as Penny's cab was swallowed by the late-night traffic, then began the short walk to his room at the Army and Navy Club, every step leaden with disappointment and the memory of the light in her eyes.

Penny had a different end to the evening in mind. The cab dropped her in Berkeley Square in mere minutes, a pleasant contrast to her earlier travails, and already the poor Major was forgotten. She smiled at the doorman who held open the door to the building for her, and on reaching her apartment she entered quietly, not wanting to wake a slumbering Martin or a dozing Roxanne. For her aim was particular, and growing more direct -- to satisfy a need that had amplified through the day.

She slipped into her bedroom, silently closing her door and hearing only the faintest click. She smiled to herself, and navigated using only the ambient light that came from the crack between her curtains. First, she disrobed, her fingers moving with practised speed, but her thoughts a trifle frustrated -- surely, as the twentieth century beckoned, a more amiable manner of dressing for women could be invented, perchance something with fewer layers. She laid aside her jacket and skirt, and then her shirtwaist, and beneath that she still had petticoat and drawers, corset and chemise, and finally stockings and garters. It felt never-ending in her hurry, but at least her hair fell gracefully with the removal of a mere four pins.

Naked, finally, she could open the middle drawer in her armoire and remove the box she had surreptitiously placed there earlier in the day. She took it with reverence and brought it to the bed, where she lay, an excitement growing in her. She opened the box, and within lay her new most favourite thing -- La Duchesse. It was a thing of utmost beauty, a smooth, stately resin shaft about eight inches long and five around, with a golden finish. It tapered to a rounded point at the end, and by turning the base a number of times the clockwork mechanism inside, upon the simple press of a button, would vibrate the whole most wonderfully until the clockwork wound down. With enough turns, it wouldn't run out of energy before the user had extracted her maximum joy from it.

Penny exhaled softly as she beheld it. She had been waiting for this moment with a growing impatience since she had secreted the box, behind Roxanne's back, all those hours earlier. She had bought it in a discreet boutique in Paris, where it was flying off the shelves, and unbeknownst to Roxanne she had made a special detour. Unavailable yet in Britain, to the ill-fortune of all British women, Penny knew that once it crossed the Channel it wouldn't only be French women who lusted after it.

She turned the clockwork a number of times, the mere feel of the implement in her hands enough to stimulate a most engrossing sensation between her legs. When it was ready she teased herself a little, letting her fingertips slide across her skin, and not yet applying the toy where it would do most good. She closed her eyes, relaxing into her drifting thoughts, and there appeared Sebastian von Lipschitz, dark, handsome, toned, with the merest dusting of silver at his temples, and a cock that rose prominent and enticing. She pressed the button.

Oh, what wonder! She pressed it around her mons, gently at first but with a growing ardour, and then she let it slide the length of her, down to her moistened entrance. She pressed up to meet it, to let it goad her onwards, and Sebastian, handsome Sebastian, was stern with her for defeating him. How he would punish her, bending her over his knee and bringing his palm down with a stinging slap upon her rump. Again, and then again, and she would feel that tingling, and beneath her his warm manhood grew and pressed against her skin.

He would turn her, she knew, and bring her up on her knees and elbows, positioning himself behind her. Telling him she was innocent made no difference, that wicked man plunging into her, filling her as the toy did now. But what was this? Now he had a companion, a man well-built but faceless, his features unnecessary, his shaft as hard as Sebastian's. They told her to sit upon him, and she held La Duchesse erect and penetrated herself, easing herself on to the toy and then riding it.

Her imaginary men took turns with her as she gasped and panted, holding the toy firm with one hand and caressing herself with the other until she felt the distant contraction. She was hot, then cold, then her body was beyond her control as the spasms robbed her legs of their strength and the pleasure undulated through her, great ripples of delight as she trembled and fell forward, holding herself up as her hair, disordered now, dropped tangled over her face and shivers crawled over her scalp. At last, she sucked in a great breath and blew it out softly, raising herself and letting her friend fall, winding itself down, on the bed sheets.

She had only the strength left to pull the covers over her, and thus, smiling, Penny drifted off to sleep.

* * *

May became June, and the final Robotic Mining Equipment Consortium board meeting before the long summer hove into view. Penny had received Ambrose Lister's rather oleaginous invitation to the meeting and she had smiled to herself, then laughed with Roxanne, as she remembered Violetta Burlington's warning about the man. Her friends, as sweet as they were, had a tendency to think of her as a child, not the eleventh richest woman in England (she had checked, surreptitiously) who had already defeated a villain whose attitude towards women was... not unpleasant, true, but certainly not very respectful.

She was sure that she could keep Ambrose Lister in his place, and if necessary, she could always use the methods she had learnt at Frau Aufguss's Academy for Young Ladies in the Swiss Canton of Lucerne. She had spent a happy three years there, being 'finished,' as the horrible term went, until she left in her twenty-first year. Amongst Frau Aufguss's lessons was a stern course in 'how to discipline a naughty dog,' and the Frau kept her hawkish eye on all her charges as they learnt that particular lesson.

"Remember, younk leydies," she would enunciate, carefully, "tretting a dog is yust like tretting a bad man. If a man ist bad, you must say 'nein!' most clearly, und if he persists, take away his bone, und ze same vis the dog."

Penny had thoroughly enjoyed that particular course, though she had to shut out the complaining of Miss Angela Colltishaw, who would complain again and again that the dog was putting pawprints on her dress. But for Penny, it was 'learning a transferable skill' at its best, and since her sojourn in Paris, she had had that particular lesson uppermost in her mind. Though, she hoped, it would surely not be necessary to apply it to an Englishman... surely.

Upon the day, Penny dressed with an appropriate smirk -- a charcoal grey jacket and walking skirt, with a City businessman pinstripe. Roxanne grinned when she saw what Penny had chosen.

"They'll think you're funning with them," said Roxanne.

"I," said Penny with a flourish, "mock the marvellous men of mammon?"

"Aye," said Roxanne, "I think you might, Miss Dreadful, but only gently."

Penny smiled and winked, and then she was off and away to Cornhill. Many British people mistook the seat of power in the Empire, believing it to reside in the fleet at Portsmouth, or in the hands of the Thin Red Line, wherever they were called upon. Some looked to Liverpool and Bristol, and the London docks, from where British goods were exported around the world, or in the Houses of Parliament and Britain's constitutional monarchy. Others still, believed the British Raj was the source of her global pre-eminence.

They were all wrong, however, as the true source of power dwelt in the square mile of the City of London, moving money and casting a beady eye over the balance sheets. The clerks and brokers, the unseen, true beating heart of the Pax Britannica, were supervised in boardrooms such as that at 39 Cornhill, its furniture heavy and well-built just like the men currently sitting around the expansive table, their eyes fixed and hooded as they barely even tried to conceal their hostility towards the interloper, Miss Penelope Evelyn Dreadful.

Only Ambrose Lister projected a veneer of hospitality as the Company Secretary called the meeting to order. He understood how his fellow directors felt, of course, for until now the only women to enter the boardroom had, rightly, been the tea-lady and the cleaner. But he was, frankly, disappointed that the other men on the board couldn't understand the need to undermine Miss Dreadful with flattery, rather than stimulate her obduracy with their own.

The discomfort of the directors of the Robotic Mining Equipment Consortium then rose to near apoplexy when Penny actually had the audacity to speak. The Company Secretary had nodded through the apologies and the acceptance of the last meeting's minutes. Ambrose Lister followed with only a few brief remarks about the robust health of the concern -- after all Bertram Miles and Sandy Haverington-Smythe had an appointment on the golf course, and Sir Bernard Appleby had made it very clear that he wanted to make the afternoon meet at Kempton Park, where one of his own horses was racing.

"Excuse me, but I have a question about this entry on the financial report," said Penny, raising her hand just as the other directors were about to nod through the finances, too.

"Ah, yes dear Miss Dreadful," said Ambrose smoothly as Sir Bernard choked, and had to be helped by Giles Arbuthnot vigorously slapping his back, "the final figure you see at the bottom is the healthy balance we retain within the company."

"Why, yes, of course," smiled Penny, "I understand balance sheets. Frau Aufguss, at the Academy in Lucerne, was most insistent that modern young ladies get to grips with the world of finance as we enter into the new century. Thus, I can see very well that we are currently in profit.

"What concerns me, however, is to know where the bulk of this profit comes from, which is not, as far as I can see, from the sale of robotic mining equipment. Of course, that market appears set to mushroom in the coming years, but most of the current profit is represented by this entry here, at line fourteen. It accounts for nearly eighty percent of the profit, and yet appears only under 'miscellaneous income.' I wonder if you might explain the nature of this miscellaneous income."

The directors around the table froze, Giles in mid-slap, and their eyes seemed fit to pop from their heads. Ambrose Lister pressed his lips together to stifle the cry that sought to escape, his hands scrunched into fists and his nails digging into his palms. He had, from the moment Penny had set foot in the building, been pondering the most opportune moment to steer her into his box at the theatre, from whence it was surely but a brief step to the bedroom at his pied-a-terre. Now, however, he was beginning to suspect that she was disconcertingly clever -- a challenge, and one he might well fail.

"Ah, yes," said Ambrose, rallying, "that represents the income from an experimental joint venture. As we have only supplied the seed capital, and set aside some manufacturing capacity, it is not a core venture and so does not appear here in any detail."

"I understand," said Penny, showing an alarming capacity for not being fobbed off, "but I was hoping for an indication of the actual nature of the venture. That is to say, what is being made and sold."

Ambrose glanced around the table for support from his fellows, none of whom seemed capable of meeting his eye. Very well, that cowardice would be remembered.

"The nature of the venture is not yet fully finalised, I'm afraid," said Ambrose, "but we expect to be bringing a fully formed operation to the market place in the very near future, at which point a full description will appear in the report. But until then, I suggest we accept the report. There being no objections? Good, and if there isn't any other business, I believe we can wrap up the meeting with the anticipation of a long, glorious summer holiday."

Both Penny and Ambrose cast their eyes over the other directors, one in frustration, the other in silent relief, as the men indicated that they had no further questions.

"Now, Miss Dreadful," said Ambrose, turning his full attention to Penny and giving her his crocodile smile, "I understand that you want to learn the ins-and-outs of the business, and for that we thought that there is nobody better for you to meet than Professor Patterson, our chief technician. Giles will show you down to his laboratory."

The laboratory was in the sub-basement, and as Penny was shown through the door by a quietly mortified Giles Arbuthnot, Professor Freddie Patterson, in a long grey lab coat, was bent over a pile of metal components on a work bench. Distracted by the sound of Penny entering he looked up in her direction, and time stood still, the bluebirds sang and the violins played. Penny felt it, too, her heart fibrillating as she looked at a youthful man as far from her mental image of a crusty old academic as it was possible to get. He was young, perhaps in his early thirties, tall and slender without being weak, with a flop of blond hair that fell over his brow and active intelligence bursting from his features.

He was a professor largely because he had developed his own discipline, and he was the driving technical force behind the Robotic Mining Equipment Consortium, though he was so caught up in his creative vortex that he didn't realise how integral he was to the suits in the boardroom. For their part, they were well aware that no Professor Patterson, no Robotic Mining Equipment Consortium, and so they encouraged him to stay in his dungeon, tinkering to his heart's content. Because of this he was unaware, firstly, that there was even a board meeting that day, and secondly, that a serious investor, Miss Penny Evelyn Dreadful, would be attending and desirous of a guided tour of his work. He was hardly, however, disappointed.

Giles Arbuthnot palmed Penny off on him with cursory courtesy, but neither of them particularly heard him. Penny looked into Freddie's grey eyes, and fervently wished for him to have a nice voice. He did.