Chapter Thirteen #2
She greeted her mother and sisters, made her excuses to Mr. Collins for why she could not stay to listen as he read another chapter from his book of sermons, and made certain everybody saw her walk up the main stairs to the passageway, which led to the main (and to everyone’s knowledge, only) door to her room.
Within a few short minutes a maid arrived with the tea and light meal, and immediately upon the girl’s departure, Elizabeth locked her door and disappeared down the secret stairs to rescue Mr. Darcy from the shrubbery.
They took little time over the tea and then ascended those secret stairs once more.
The storage room, once they reached it, was as quiet and silent as they had expected.
The dishes on the small table had been cleared away and the clothing on the chair likewise was gone.
Only the pile of books, still on the low table by the cot, indicated that the room had ever been occupied.
The code machine, thankfully, remained on the table, although no trace of paper could be seen anywhere in the room.
“I brought some sheets of paper, and a pencil,” Elizabeth reached into the small bag she carried and handed the items to Mr. Darcy. “I thought they might be of use.”
“Clever girl!” he breathed but kept his eyes on the machine.
Like the previous night, the room was flooded with light, but now it was sunlight from the open draperies and not lamplight that illuminated the space.
Lizzy crouched by the table and examined the apparatus from all angles, whilst Mr. Darcy began a set of sketches.
They were basic and lacking in detail at this point, but she could see that he had great skill, and was certain that he would refine his drawings as his investigation continued until he had a detailed set of technical diagrams of the entire object.
For the moment, however, he seemed intent upon writing down the letters on the discs. His dark eyes scoured the array of jumbled characters, and his pencil darted across the page.
He now sat facing the window, in the chair in which Lizzy had seen one of the Frenchmen sit, blocking her view of the device.
This allowed her to examine the aspect of the machine that lay directly in the sun’s light, presenting her with a clear view of its inner workings.
Through the hole in the machine’s side, her eyes traced the buttons and levers on the outer shell, and then followed them through the workings of the device to where a series of cams and dials seemed somehow connected to a second set of machinery.
It was similar to the workings of a cuckoo clock, which she had once seen in London, although the exact workings of the dials and cogs were to a different effect.
This lever connected with that cam, which moved the dial to the left.
And then... She became lost in the complicated workings of this fascinating machine.
The two worked together in silence; at times one or the other would pick up the device to examine it from a different angle, or to better see how the various parts came together.
It was cold and heavy in Lizzy’s hands, and the broken parts let out a quiet metallic clang as they fell against each other.
She had quite lost track of the passage of time when Mr. Darcy stood up from his chair to stretch.
His one sheet with its rough sketch and row of disordered letters had disappeared beneath a pile of papers, the topmost of which now boasted an excellent representation of the machine and a neat array of letters.
She blinked as she too rose from her low seat and felt the effects of her concentration upon her neck and back.
If she were feeling discomfort, how much more so must Mr. Darcy be feeling?
“Are you well, sir? I had no notion of this pain in my joints until I stood. How much time has passed?”
He glanced at his pocket watch. “We have been here for nigh on two hours.”
Her eyes widened. This she had not expected!
“Have you discerned anything?” He rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand and rotated the injured shoulder as if attempting to relieve an aching joint.
“I believe so. This is a most unusual and sophisticated machine, more akin to the automatons and mechanical toys we see in exhibitions than to simple items such as your watch.” She watched him sniff in scorn at her derisive comment, but schooled his features before she could take umbrage.
“My watch is a fine example of English workmanship!” he said to the air.
“Perhaps, but compared to this machine, it is but a toy. Have you seen the marvels men have created of late? There is a boy who draws portraits, and a lady who plays the harpsichord, all made of metal and mechanical wizardry. This device is more of their species than of the most perfect of watches.”
“I have heard of such things,” Mr. Darcy admitted, “but have not seen them.”
“There is even one boy who writes letters, created by Pierre Jaquet-Droz. One can determine what he writes by manipulating the order of letters in his machinery. This one I have not seen, but I have read about, and seen drawings of him. This machine here,” she indicated the code machine, “seems to find its inspiration there, for these buttons seem to alter the movement of the inner cams, which in turn rotate the discs on which you have your mixed-up letters.”
He was staring at her, eyes unblinking, mouth agape. “What does that mean?”
“It means that by selecting different combinations of buttons, one can manipulate the rotation of each disc to a specific degree. If somebody elsewhere has an identical machine, the rotations can be done in reverse to revert the discs to their original positions. In other words, they can be used to create a cypher.”