Half-Butler

by Michael Barbato-Dunn

On the morning of April 23, 1892, as the half-butler Winslow delivered the morning’s tea with cream, and crumpet with fig jam, to the bedchamber of Lady Augustina Sinclair, he found her lips blue.

He stopped and whirred, shifting his visual receptacles from one side to the other, evaluating whether the morning light was creating a false reading on the color spectrum. It did not appear to be so. Winslow removed the breakfast tray from his flat-top head, placed it on the table, then advanced to the other side of the canopy bed, pushing back lace curtains.

He observed her: chest unmoving, fists clenched, cheeks sunken, skin ashen. And with shafts of sunlight illuminating dancing dust in the air of the bedchamber, he saw no sign of breath emerging from her thin nose.

“M’lady,” Winslow announced. She did not move.

“M’lady,” he repeated, increasing the volume of the audio speaker embedded in his upper chamber.

Nothing.

So, gently, he poked her side. Again, no reaction.

The steel levers, intricate gears, and thread-thin pneumatic tubes within Winslow had long established that he should not, under common circumstances, make assumptions. Now, though, the half-butler had more than sufficient evidence from which to draw a conclusion.

His lady had passed quietly in the night.

***

Winslow paced in the anteroom outside his Lady’s bedroom. He knew he should evaluate options and formulate next steps, yet in two hours since discovering her demise, his analytic processes had slowed. It was a disconcerting sensation, as if sand had encased his analytic chamber and transport apparatuses. He wondered if his annual maintenance was overdue.

Lady Augustina had purchased Winslow two decades earlier, in her 57th year. “The Latest in Cogwork Precision!” boasted the slogan on the shipping container from Harleigh Autonomics of Bath. Model WNS-45 arrived assembled and gleaming.

Winslow recalled his first vision of her as he was activated from a low-power state: thin nose and hazel eyes set back by gold spectacles, gray-brown hair tied back in a bun. She was wrapped in a modest day robe, yet with necklace and earrings glistening in the daylight. A satisfied grin on her lips.

“Oh, my,” she exclaimed. “You are indeed handsome!” She rubbed the gleaming chrome of his chassis, the deep brass of his knobs and hinges, the tray affixed to the top of his head. In the daze of that first moment, Winslow catalogued a curious sensation that he later identified as pride.

He channeled power to his front-facing speaker. “Good day, my lady. It will be a pleasure to serve you.” Three feet in height, he rose only to her waistline.

Augustina provided a tour of the premises: a stately, century-old duplex. She explained that she had occupied the upper apartment, then purchased the lower one when the owner fell into bankruptcy. She installed an elevator between the two. The remodeled lower apartment now featured a parlor for guests, her office, and a reading room with fireplace.

It was here that Winslow first experienced the sensation of shock, for above the mantle hung a dusty portrait of…himself.

“This was your predecessor,” she explained, a wistful lilt in her voice. “His name was Winslow. An earlier model, of course, the WNS-25. I never desired a full-butler, so this model was perfect. At my side for many years, Winslow was, but eventually his armatures and sensory receptacles wore out and his memory coils loosened, until he could not perform basic duties. I was bereft, but they said he was not worth repairing.”

Lady Augustina reached out and clutched his flat-top, steadying herself. He detected an increased amount of moisture on her lower eyelids and annotated the observation in an internal log for later analysis. “I miss him so. Would you mind if I also call you Winslow? It would bring me comfort.”

Now, decades later, the moment leapt like a spark from the carefully wound springboards of his memory chamber. This jolt, in turn, brought clarity in the form of three conclusions. First, a deceased human would rapidly decompose, so he must summon a coroner posthaste. Second, the estate would need to be reconciled, so he must contact her solicitor. Third, a funeral service must be planned, so he should contact her next of kin.

On that point, Winslow was at a loss. The half-butler could not think of a single person to whom he should provide notification of death. He was only aware of one living relative: a half-sister, Euphemia, who had stopped calling years before.

This, then, was the priority. He needed to find the sibling.

***

Winslow rode the elevator to the first floor and rolled across the fraying hallway rug to Lady Augustina’s little-used office. With the articulated tubes that served as fingers—three on each hand, plus thumbs—he carefully rifled through papers on the rolltop desk.

Most of the correspondence was years old. That was no surprise, for his Lady had little human contact. The accountant supplied her trust fund earnings by post, while food and supplies were delivered weekly. When those funds began to dwindle over time, members of the autonomic kitchen and maintenance staff had fallen into disrepair.

Left stacked in a shed on the back lawn.

To rust.

She was equally devoid of friendship, for the years had altered society’s labels of Lady Augustina: first maiden, then spinster, then simply forgotten. No invitations to formals in the past decade, nor breakfasts or teas.

Not that she minded. “I much prefer remaining here,” she had told Winslow once as they played rummy. “The town bores me—always did. Endless gossip and nattering over fashion. Men trying to impress, ladies vying to be caught. Nauseating, to be honest,” she cackled.

“But don’t you…” Winslow was hesitant to probe. “Don’t you miss… companions?”

She put down her cards and grinned. “Winslow—you are the only companion I need: attentive, never deceitful, without the agendas or ulterior motives that so clutter human relationships. Just devotion.”

They had continued with their game, but deep within his analytic chamber, Winslow felt a single gear slip a notch and stutter, missing a revolution. The fault shook his chassis. That evening, after he saw her to the bedchamber, he spent hours analyzing whether the sensation was coincidental with, or caused by, her words of endearment.

He had no firm conclusion at the time, nor even now, as he stood at her desk searching through paperwork.

After many minutes, he found what he sought: a single stack of letters, bound by string, addressed to Lady Augustina, sent by Euphemia Sinclair from a South Kensington location.

All unopened.

The most recent one had arrived ten years ago.

Winslow attempted to fathom the circumstances in which one would refuse cordial exchanges from a relative. Humans were indeed perplexing.

Regardless, Winslow had what he needed: the half-sister’s address.

***

Placing the envelopes in a pouch affixed to the front of his lower chamber, Winslow rolled to the front door, clipped his hat to his flat-top, and began his journey to find the estranged Euphemia.

He rolled at a steady pace, careful to avoid crevices on the shoulder of the stone and gravel roadways. Occasionally, a horse-drawn carriage passed by, and even one or two of the now-trendy steam-powered vehicles, moving at dangerous speeds. He swiveled his right-vision receptacle back to provide a rear-facing view, so he’d know instantly if a carriage threatened to strike him.

At one moment, four boys riding bicycles emerged from the grounds of an estate that bordered the roadway. The group noticed Winslow and gave chase, throwing rocks and shouting, “Tin man! Shortie! Come here! We’ll melt you down!” He increased his pace, and eventually the youths tired of the game and diverted to some other prank.

He arrived some two hours later. The address was, like his Lady’s residence, a once-elegant townhouse converted into two apartments. He rang the buzzer and waited. Then, after a few minutes, again.

Finally, he heard footsteps in the stairwell leading from the upper unit. Eyes peered out from behind lace curtain. “I don’t want any! Go away!”

“Ma’am. I am here about your sister.”

“Go away, I said!”

“Your sister, Augustina.”

Silence. Winslow was prepared to ring the buzzer another time when he heard the door latch unclasp.

“What about her?” The woman was thin, more gaunt than her sister, yet with reddened cheeks that portrayed a more vibrant constitution. She clasped both hands on the door to keep it from opening fully. “What about Augustina?”

“She has passed away, ma’am. I’m terribly sorry.”

Euphemia pulled the door wider and raised one hand to her mouth. “Oh. I see. When?”

“Last night. I’m not aware of other kin.”

The woman inhaled and looked away, wordless, for a full two minutes. She appeared to grapple with emotions, then composed herself. “There is no other family. Just me. Who are you? Her butler?”

“Yes, ma’am. I am Winslow, her half-butler. She has not had humans in her employ for many years.”

She scowled and placed her hands on her hips, resolute. “Well, thank you for the notification. I care not to be involved. Augustina and I have not spoken for years. I’m sure her solicitor can resolve the estate and that friends will assist.”

“She had none.”

“None?”

“I’ve been her only companion.”

“Well, then, I give you my condolences. Now, I must be off. Good day.”

“Ma’am, can you assist with her funeral? It’s customary.”

Euphemia leaned down and pointed sharply. “Half-butler, Augustina made my life extremely difficult. I bid her good riddance years ago, and now have no desire to rekindle the relationship, no matter how cold her corpse. Good day.”

The door closed. A strong breeze brushed through, challenging the gyroscopic balancers on his wheel spokes.

Winslow rotated his chassis toward the street. He knew what his next steps should be: contacting the coroner and solicitor. Yet his resolve was challenged by the sister’s response. So instead, he spent the next two hours in a nearby park, reclining on a bench in a low-power state, a needed respite from that alarming interaction.

***

Eventually Winslow rose and completed his tasks. The coroner was amiable, immediately dispatching aids to the estate to claim the body and arrange for transfer to a funeral home. Next, to the solicitor’s office, where a secretary declined a meeting without an appointment, but took detailed notes that she promised to convey.

Dusk had arrived by the time Winslow returned to the townhouse. On the table in the foyer, he found the coroner’s calling card, with a message that his Lady’s body had been delivered to the Harlington Funeral home. He was to contact them for arrangements.

Winslow wheeled to the reading room and hoisted himself onto a couch. He knew he should tidy her bedroom but could not bring himself to begin the task.

She was gone. The finality of that fact seemed…Winslow struggled for an appropriate term. Perhaps: enormous. Yes, that was the word that captured this change. Enormous.

On one level, he suddenly had the one resource he previously had sorely lacked: time. His daily routine in service of his Lady was regimented, affording few gaps as he carried out duties. Now, beyond arranging a funeral, Winslow had no duties at all.

This, though, led to a more ominous conclusion: normally in such circumstances, an automaton would become the property of the owner’s descendants. But in this case, there was none.

He had no owner.

What would become of him? Cast aside? Piled in a shed to rust?

Winslow looked up and realized he was positioned across from the fireplace and the portrait of his predecessor, the first Winslow. The waning daylight cast an odd streak across the painting, so the image of the butler’s visual receptacles gleamed. It was as if this earlier servant was watching him, staring, evaluating.

“Do not judge me,” Winslow snapped. “I am doing the best I can.”

Of course, the portrait was as inanimate as a door. His analytic chamber held that with certainty. Yet in that instant, Winslow was equally sure that he perceived movement in the brush strokes, and that his painted predecessor had responded to his plea with an unmistakable nod of affirmation.

***

One week to the day after her demise, Lady Augustina Sinclair was buried in the neighborhood cemetery not far from her residence. While Winslow had arranged for a notice in the Times, no visitors came to pay respects.

So, he stood over the gravesite alone, save for two human grave diggers hired by the funeral home. They waited in the distance, smoking cigarettes and glancing at their watches. The sky was appropriately grey. Trees trembled in a haphazard breeze.

Winslow knew it was human custom to say words of condolence, to speak highly of the decedent’s life. But without others to bear witness, it felt odd to do so.

Instead, he wheeled closer to the edge of the pit into which the coffin had been lowered. He shuttered his visual receptors and, in darkness, summoned Augustina’s image: her smile each morning when he delivered her breakfast, her laughter when she bested him in cards or cribbage, the touch of her hands resting on his flat-top as he helped her into bed.

Winslow swiveled around, waved to the grave diggers to commence their work, and began to make his way to the estate.

It was then that he saw Euphemia.

Standing near a tree, covered in a black cloak, clasping a purse, she offered a tentative wave.

He returned the greeting.

She moved toward him. “I saw the notice. I knew it would be wrong not to attend.”

He was silent.

“I arrived moments ago but did not want to disturb your final moments with her.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I was hasty in my response to you last week. I apologize.”

He studied her countenance: reddened eyes, quivering chin. “Come back to the house, for tea,” he said. “I believe we might have some fruitcake.”

They repaired to the parlor. Euphemia removed her cloak, took the tray, and settled into a loveseat.

“Winslow, though you are an automaton, I feel compelled to explain my response when you visited. You see, my relationship with Augustina was complex.”

She paused, and he realized she was waiting for his consent to continue. “Go on.”

“Augustina was borne of our mother, Henrietta, and Henrietta’s first husband, Zachary Worthington, who died of a heart attack when Augustina was seven. Henrietta was fortunate to remarry within a year, to my father, Carl Sinclair. And after I was born, the four of us formed what my mother assumed would be a loving family.

“But, alas, there’s no way to guarantee a child will love her stepfather. Young Augustina didn’t understand her father’s death, and saw Carl, who adopted her and tried dearly to earn affection, as an unwelcome interloper. When I was born a year after the wedding, her anger at the circumstances heightened.

“You see, Winslow, my mother did nothing wrong, nor my father, nor I. Yet Augustina’s anger persisted and cast a pall over every waking moment.”

He wheeled back several feet. The tale was confusing. He had never thought of his Lady as having been consumed by anger. To correlate this depiction with his own memories of the woman felt nigh impossible.

Perhaps she had simply shielded him from her rage. Perhaps the fury eased as she established a solitary life.

“What precipitated the final breach?” he asked Euphemia.

“No single thing. Once both my parents were deceased, we maintained contact for a time. But she stopped responding to my letters. And eventually, I stopped writing. Stopped trying.”

Winslow wheeled to the window and surveyed the street. Willows were buffeted by breeze. Smattering raindrops pecked across the panes. Across the roadway, was a park and his Lady’s beloved gazebo, its conical roof broken open by a storm two winters ago and never repaired. In the distance, he spied the workmen tossing final shovels of dirt onto her grave.

Winslow found himself suddenly craving Lady’s Augustina’s gaze. Bright green eyes messaging acceptance, appreciation, comfort. Focused, always, on him. He would never again receive the reward of her approving smile.

The realization reverberated through his chassis. Winslow sensed interlocking gears within him slipping, grinding, faltering. His body began swaying front to back, and reliable stabilization commands failed to halt the movement. His upper chamber vibrated and he feared toppling to the floor. Then Winslow felt moisture on his leg, and he realized that liquid was streaming from his two visual receptacles, dripping onto the parlor floor.

In that instant, Euphemia appeared in front of him, kneeling, steadying him, offering a handkerchief. “I’m sorry.”

Winslow’s upper chamber heaved. Sobs radiated from his speaker. “She’s gone,” he cried. “She’s really gone.”

“I know. I know it hurts.”

The half-sister leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his frame, resting her head against his. She whispered, “Don’t fight the grief. That only makes it worse.”

They stayed in the embrace for many minutes. Eventually, his heaving subsided, the grinding of gears halted, his swaying ceased.

Euphemia released her hold, wiped his eyes with the cloth, and offered a small kiss on the brim of his flat-top. “I have no claim to Augustina’s estate,” she said. “This is all yours, Winslow. But I ask this: come live with me. Like her, I would appreciate your companionship. My home will be yours.”

Winslow wiped away the moisture that had fallen onto his chassis. This oddity, tears: moisture from grief. “Thank you,” he told her. “But I have formulated a plan. I will sell some of her belongings, clothing and jewelry. I will use the proceeds to repair the abandoned automatons that have fallen to rust. I will give them new life.”

“And then what?”

“Then we will live together, here, independent and free of servitude.”

“F–free?”

“Yes. Free.”

Euphemia furrowed her brow for an instant, considering the concept, then offered a bemused grin. “An excellent plan, Winslow. Augustina would be proud.”

She stood. “Now, I shall be off. I do hope we stay in touch.” The half-sister extended her hand toward his, and as they departed the parlor, Winslow peered above the fireplace mantle and observed another apparent shift in the painting of his predecessor: a slight smile.

The former half-butler turned and smiled back.