Unfortunately Mr. Harlow returned not only with our new guests but other alarming news from the village. Father Joseph and a small entourage had arrived at the parish church and taken up residency there. No one had seen Father Hughes since the Bristol priest’s arrival and every day since his arrival he had been giving sermons daily, all well attended to the point where his flock were spilling out the doors of the Lord’s house.

Mr. Harlow reported that he had stopped by the church on his way in and, “I will tell you m’Lady, that man seems to think the end times are upon us what with the coming of the dread mechanical man, wouldn’t even bother to use Peter’s name, and while a good many of his listeners were strangers to me there were still plenty I recognized from the village and farms about. Of particular note was a large ogre like fellow standing beside one of the windows.”

“Let us restrict our discussions of fantastical creatures as we agreed,” I suggested.

“Aye, m’Lady. That’s most likely for the best,” Mr. Harlow said with a quick wink.

“Though necessary, I fear Mr. Dowling’s relative isolation since his unveiling has done him little favors,” I said. “I suspect Rothsfield needs to hear a proper and sensible voice as soon as possible.”

When A Woman’s Voice was finally printed, Thomas sent a copy to all the major Newspapers in England, hoping they might report on our little paper. Our first issue was small and consisted of little more than my letter. We took a copy to show father, Dr. Blyth, and Mr. Dowling before its release the following day.

“Well. We’d better secure the doors and board the windows,” Father said after staring quietly at it for quite some time. “Tomorrow will be an interesting day.”

“Lady Fairfax,” Mr. Dowling said, “you h-have been working so v-very hard these days.

“Are you all right, my good man?” Thomas asked, with little trace of his usual humor.

“I apologize,” Mr. Dowling said. “The voi-voi-voice box thing is a b-bit off and created a st-stutter today.”

“That’s perfectly alright. Take your time,” I said as I surreptitiously stole a glance at Dr. Blyth.

“It’s just, do you su-suppose A Woman’s Voice will be a-able to t-t-t-turn the tide? So m-many have come seemingly intent on v-v-violence.” Mr. Dowling glanced down at his rickety hands quietly tapping out a rhythm on his thighs.

“As ever, my friend, I believe we must have faith that it can,” I said taking his hands in mine. I could feel his fingers continuing to try and tap tap their quiet little rhythm.

“Sorry,” Mr. Dowling said quietly to me. “N-n-nerves, I suppose.”

“Mr. Pitt,” I heard my father saying just then, “I was quite serious about the doors and windows. Let’s see what we can find to brace them.”

I glanced again at Dr. Blyth. He was watching Mr. Dowling with what seemed to be concern. I made it a point to corner him later while father and Thomas were talking with Mr. Dowling.

“Dr. Blyth, is everything all right? You have been watching Mr. Dowling awfully close.”

He smiled and answered, “Oh, yes. Just some faulty connections somewhere. I will find them and have him right as a trivet before you know it. Mr. Dowling’s body is a complicated piece of machinery.”

“That is reassuring,” I said, feeling relieved. “You are a good man Doctor.”

“It is truly a comfort to know you and your family believe that even still after...” he quietly trailed off. His gaze seemed to wander away from me and not back to Mr. Dowling or anywhere in the present. It seemed as though he was looking into the years long past.

I thought for a moment and then offered, “We never blamed you, doctor, for what happened with mother and the baby. We have our grief but we never blamed you.”

He smiled once more. A thin, wan smile, the kind that could blow away with but a gentle breeze, “Well, child, I suppose that makes one of us.”

The following day was an anxious one. We restlessly awaited word on how A Woman’s Voice was received. Mr. Ridley finally arrived near evening, positively beaming.

“We sold every copy!” he announced, bringing a cheer from all assembled. “However, I don’t know that it is receiving very positive reviews.”

“No surprise there,” Thomas stated.

“Though, Father Joseph was calling for a village meeting to discuss your little ‘heresy’ as I passed through town. I do believe those were his exact words.”

“Good,” I declared. “It has them talking. Perhaps we should be there.”

“No,” Father insisted. “Let’s give it some time. Let them have their meeting. I do not suspect today will be the day for level-headed conversation.”

“Not to worry,” Thomas said. “We have enough work to do here. We have another issue to prepare. You need to work on your next piece. Father Joseph likes his fire and brimstone, how about you, Abi? Think you can write up something equally bombastic? We should also try and make this next issue bigger. Perhaps you would submit a piece, Doctor?”

“It would be a pleasure. Perhaps I could explain the processes a bit more and dispel this talk of devilry and necromancy. It really is quite excellent science after all.”

“We should also include an interview with Mr. Dowling,” I suggested.

“Brilliant!” Thomas agreed.

The rest of the day was spent preparing our next issue. While Mr. Ridley returned to Bristol to acquire the necessary materials for our next issue, Clifton Manor was a flurry of excited activity. Even Father took an interest and began looking into possible investors and advertisers to help with production and distribution costs. I spent time working on my next piece and then met with Mr. Dowling to work on his interview. It was an opportunity to show his humanity. My goal was to portray the feeling, thinking man trapped in the rattling body.

We sat in the library. Mr. Dowling’s leg was worse today and he was having trouble getting it to work at all. Another walk through the garden seemed out of the question. His stutter still remained as well.

I readied my pen, ink, and paper. Then I asked with a smile, “Are you ready?”

“Of course,” he said with a nod that I returned.

“When you introduce yourself, what do you say?” I asked.

“I say that my name is P-Peter Dowling.”

“Despite how much you have changed?”

“This?” he said, raising his hands for me to see. “This is just a b-body. I am inside of it, as you re-reminded me. I am still here, me, with my thoughts and mem-memories.”

“Yet life has changed for you.”

“It c-certainly has.”

“Are you grateful Dr. Blyth saved you?”

He thought for a moment. “Yes, but if he had asked when I was still in g-good health, I w-would have refused the procedure. I unders-stand why people are afraid of me.”

“What is it about you that you think frightens them?”

“I don’t l-l-look human. I clink and ra-rattle when I walk. My voice is incap-incapable of inflection or emotion. My face conveys no ex-expressions. I am, quite simply, unsettling.”

“Do you feel anger when people are so quick to dismiss your humanity?”

“No. I feel l-loneliness. Em-m-motion is all that’s l-left. No warmth, no c-cold, no taste, no t-touch. N-no sensations. J-just sadness, h-happiness, fear, rel-l-ief… loneliness.”

I didn’t know what to say as Mr. Dowling paused. I must confess the depth of his feeling kept surprising me.

“But w-when the loneliness is t-too much I remember those who sup-p-port me. Then th-there’s hope.”

I smiled and placed my hand on top of his. I felt the cold metal beneath his glove. “You must never let go of that hope and you are definitely not alone. As people learn more about you, they will change their minds.”

“I hope that you are c-correct. If they do n-not, I fear what will be-become of me.”

“What is it you fear most?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

He watched me flounder about considering all I knew of him yet I continually found myself at a loss for an answer. I considered all of the challenges that lay before him. There was much to overcome.

“Death.”

Perhaps it was simply Mr. Dowling’s cold and straightforward voice, but his statement sent a chill through my body. Despite the challenges ahead, it was the end of them that weighed most heavily on his mind. I swore to myself that I would let no harm come to him.

We continued the interview and I was pleased with the wealth of responses I had gathered by the time we finished. Surely it would sway public opinion. In person, people first had to look past the things that made Mr. Dowling different. In writing, his monotone voice and rattling body were not there to distract from his humanity. When we had concluded the interview, we left the library, though it took Mr. Dowling great effort to stand and even more to walk on his seized leg.