A Spark Unseen (3 page)

Mr. Wickersham appeared exactly as he had the last time he’d dropped unexpectedly into my morning room, even down to the nameless companion who sat beside him, scribbling our words into a notebook. If it was not the same scribbling man, then it was another of the breed, showing the similar traits of too much ink and too little sun. But Mr. Wickersham was of a different variety, more farmhand than gentleman of vague position in the British government, with large, rough hands and a manner to match. A lump of coal broke in the fireplace, glittering, the nameless man’s pen scratched across the paper, and I challenged Mr. Wickersham’s gaze with growing dislike each passing second.

“Well, this is bad, my dear. Very bad,” said Mr. Babcock eventually. I could not disagree with him. He drummed three fingers on his round belly. “I must say that I considered Mr. Wickersham’s warnings last month to perhaps be a bit overcautious. But now I am inclined to believe that we have not been near cautious enough.”

“I put men at the doors and in the corridor,” I said, the weeping of John George’s widow still fresh in my mind. “But my uncle will wander. Perhaps with a man at —”

“Tosh, Miss Tulman,” Mr. Wickersham broke in. “This house is a sieve, and you know it.”

My gaze went back to the settee. He was right, of course. I had seen the scratches on my lock, made by a thin tool used to turn my key from the outside, and we had also found where the two men had entered, a broken window in a lower storeroom, two floors and a dozen rooms away from any ears that could have detected the shattering glass. A house as vast and empty as Stranwyne Keep had to be vulnerable, but how I hated Mr. Wickersham for saying so. There was one empty room in Stranwyne for which I blamed him entirely.

I caught a glimpse of Mr. Babcock’s eyes, now unhooded, lifted to my face and perceiving my anger. “Katharine, my child, there is common purpose here. We would do well to remember it.”

I took his gentle admonishment and focused my attention on the matter at hand. “Mr. Wickersham, obviously you believe my uncle is not safe at Stranwyne. If we —”

“Do you not believe it yourself, Miss Tulman?”

“We would value your opinion on how to make him so, I’m sure,” I replied, my voice crackling with ice. Mr. Babcock sighed while Mr. Wickersham eyed me from behind his bushy mustache.

“Miss Tulman, a child of only marginal intelligence could enter this house without being seen, and we are not dealing with children or stupidity.” He held out a hand and the scratching of the pen instantly stopped, the nameless man’s eyes seeking a portion of the carpet and remaining there, as if he were one of my uncle’s clockwork machines that had suddenly wound down. I looked in surprise from the man back to Mr. Wickersham, who was leaning forward in his chair.

“England is at war in the Crimea, Miss Tulman, and with France as our ally against the Russian tsar. The —”

“We do get the newspapers at Stranwyne, Mr. Wickersham,” I said, unable to help myself. The man was schooling me like a child. He smiled at my rudeness.

“What you perhaps do not know, Miss Tulman, is that the alliance between England and France is an uneasy one, one that will likely continue to be uneasy, no matter who wins this war or which country controls what in the Ottoman Empire. And the war does not go well. The Royal Navy has suffered a defeat at the hand of the Russians, a defeat so humiliating that the admiral in command shot himself in the hold of his own ship rather than face his government.” I grimaced, but Mr. Wickersham took no notice. “It is the strength of our navies that will decide whether England or France is the supreme power in Europe. And the emperor has built ironclad batteries, floating arsenals impregnable to cannon that can bombard a shoreline, and ironclad ships powered by steam are not far behind them. These French ships will be fast and impervious to our weapons. They will be unstoppable, Miss Tulman.”

“You seem rather certain of these doings by the Emperor Napoléon,” I cut in. “Just where has all this information come from, Mr. Wickersham? From Lane Moreau, by any chance?”

“I will say to you again, Miss Tulman, that the late Mr. Moreau’s doings in France had nothing to do with me or the British government.”

Liar,
I thought.

Mr. Wickersham leaned even farther toward me in his chair, the move almost a threat. “The only information I have of Mr. Moreau, Miss Tulman, is the notification of his demise six weeks ago.”

If I could have flayed the man alive with my eyes, I would have. “Then perhaps you could provide me with this document, Mr. Wickersham? Or a certificate of death?” Mr. Babcock sighed heavily from his chair.

“I have no obligation to provide you with anything, young woman. But let us stick to the pertinent facts, shall we? We believe that guncotton is currently being manufactured by the French, the same explosive the man you knew as Ben Aldridge was testing for use in your uncle’s mechanical fish. We …”

Instantly my mind went to my uncle’s fish, swimming in a sleek metallic streak beneath the surface of the water, never sinking, never floating, holding its depth for reasons only Uncle Tully could fathom. To him the fish had been a “toy,” no different than the peacock that walked or his humanlike machines that played games or musical instruments. It was Ben Aldridge who had seen the great monetary advantage of handing France my uncle’s fish filled with a powerful explosive. I felt a moment of grim happiness that Ben was dead. Then I realized Mr. Wickersham was still speaking and that his thoughts had been following my own.

“… that your uncle’s fish would become an exploding weapon that could sink the fastest, most unsinkable ship clad in iron. If the Emperor Napoléon acquires this weapon first, then the race to naval supremacy is over. France will rule the seas and, inevitably, will rule Britain. The emperor knows this well; the fact that two French-speaking men entered your house to take Mr. Tulman tells us so, and it tells us that the time for perfecting this crucial weapon grows short. But I also believe the attempt to take Mr. Tulman means that the French cannot make their version of his mechanical fish work.”

I stared at Mr. Wickersham. Mr. Babcock’s fingers drummed. “But how could the French even begin to make their own version?” I replied. “The only models of my uncle’s fish were destroyed. And only Ben Aldridge had discovered how the device worked — if he even had — and he is long dead. There is no one to demonstrate, no model to refer —”

“Hence the difficulties, I’m sure!” Mr. Wickersham interrupted. “You know that we have long believed that Mr. Aldridge — or Mr. Arceneaux, to use his true name — had an accomplice, a contact on the French side. I believe that enough was known about the workings of the fish to attempt the creation of another, and that the attempt does not go well. It has not gone well for the British, and I am certain we began with more information than Napoléon did.”

Mr. Babcock’s mouth rounded in a silent “ahhh,” as if Mr. Wickersham had spoken something he’d been waiting for, and the little fingers changed to a staccato rhythm.

“Do you mean to say,” I asked, “that you have been trying to make one of Uncle Tully’s fish as well, Mr. Wickersham?”

He smiled amiably. “France may be ahead of us in the race to an ironclad ship, Miss Tulman, but both countries shall certainly have them. It is the side that has the weapon to destroy an ironclad that will own the seas, and that is a prize that both Her Majesty Victoria and the Emperor Napoléon would very much like to reserve for themselves. England and France may march together in the Crimea, but do not forget that the first Napoléon Bonaparte ruled Europe and came close to defeating us. And now his nephew Napoléon the Third has dissolved the French parliament and crowned himself emperor. He is out to recapture the reign and glory of his family, Miss Tulman, make no mistake about that. And I, for one, would not like to see that much power fall back into the hands of a Bonaparte.”

A small silence fell. Mr. Wickersham slapped his knees, and the limp man beside him seemed to wake up, immediately resuming the scratching of his pen. “So I am sure you will understand when I say that we expect your uncle in London as soon as is possible.”

His words hit my mind like a physical slap. “I’m afraid I must have misunderstood you,” I replied. Mr. Wickersham shook his head.

“You are no simpleton, Miss Tulman, and have better sense than to make an enemy of your own government. We will be prepared to collect Mr. Tulman by half past three on the day after tomorrow.”

“But you cannot do that.”

Mr. Wickersham smiled. “And why can we not?”

“Mr. Wickersham,” I began as if speaking to a particularly slow child, “you do not understand. My uncle will not work or create on your command, no matter how much you might wish him to. If you forcibly remove him to unfamiliar surroundings, he may not even function. I have grave doubts that he would even survive the journey.”

“And yet we cannot risk having him here, where the emperor can so easily snatch him. It would take half a legion of soldiers to secure this estate. We might as well telegraph our intentions to Paris. England is in need of this weapon, Miss Tulman, if only to hold the balance of power, no matter what the consequences. So to London he goes.”

I balled up a piece of skirt in my hand. “So what you are saying, Mr. Wickersham, is that you consider this weapon to be worth more than the life of my uncle. Do I understand you correctly?”

“Katharine, my child,” said Mr. Babcock softly, though there was steel in the little man’s voice. I closed my mouth as he turned to Mr. Wickersham. “Miss Tulman is understandably distressed. I think a time of quiet in her own chamber, for refreshment and reflection, would be necessary for any young lady in her position. Do you not agree, Mr. Wickersham?”

Mr. Wickersham looked hard at the little lawyer and then at me. “You are quite right, I am sure,” he said. He got to his feet, adjusting the position of his jacket sleeves. “But there is one more subject for Miss Tulman’s necessary ‘reflections.’ Her Majesty’s government is well aware that Mr. Tulman has … eccentricities, shall we say, and understands how necessary Miss Tulman’s person is to his health and well-being. Therefore it is not only Mr. Tulman’s presence that is required in London, but that of his niece as well.”

The bushy mustache turned to face me directly. “We shall return at half past three on the day after tomorrow. Please have your affairs in order, Miss Tulman, and do be prepared for an extended stay.” He gave us both a slight bow before he smiled. “And we will be setting a watch on both the road and the river. For Mr. Tulman’s continued safety, of course. A good morning to you both.”

The scribbling man hastily gathered up his things and followed Mr. Wickersham out through my morning-room door while Mr. Babcock sat quietly, lost in silent thought. I was too stunned for words. When their footsteps had faded, a voice spoke out from behind me.

“That man can’t be having Mr. Tully. Or you neither, Miss!”

I turned to see Mary’s head sticking in from around the opposite doorjamb, where she’d been eavesdropping.

“Of course he can’t,” Mr. Babcock and I said together. Mary stood upright and crossed her arms.

“And Lane Moreau is not dead,” I added, just as stoutly.

To this, neither one of them answered.

It was after midnight when Mary and I finally saw Mr. Babcock to his carriage and came creeping back to our corridor, exhausted and with our throats hoarse from talking. It had been a day of whispered conversation — many whispered conversations — conducted around the strictures of my uncle’s routine. After Uncle Tully was settled for the night, we’d followed Mr. Babcock to one of the deserted rooms in the lower wing, locked the door, and put the finishing touches to our plan amid the dirt and half-torn-out walls, the leftover casualties of the previous flood. Matthew was at the foot of my stairs when Mary and I arrived, a pistol thrust through his belt. He nodded to me once in affirmation that all was well, keeping any curiosity about where I’d been and what I’d been doing well away from his eyes.

I locked my door, but not before giving a quick glance to the portrait of Marianna, my grandmother, standing guard from her wall across the hallway. For the first time, I wondered how she could have failed me. I wondered how I could have failed them all. I removed the key to the bedside table this time, threw off my petticoats, put on a dressing gown, and dropped into my chair before a nonexistent fire, sliding the pins one by one from my hair. I felt so heavy, weighted in mind and body by all that had been decided and all that was now to come.

I pulled my stockinged feet up onto the edge of the cushion, closer to the warmth of my body, and settled my chin onto my knees. The chimney clock ticked. I remembered another night I had sat heavy before this hearth, two years earlier, Uncle Tully lying catatonic in my bed and my wretched aunt Alice lurking the lower floors, ready to rip all I’d so newly come to love away from me at the rising of the sun. Lane had come and sat vigil beside me, on the floor beside this chair, dark and silent, the two of us listening to the
tick
,
tick
,
tick
as the clock hands moved inexorably toward the morning. He reached out and took one of my hands, lifting it until his rough cheek lay against my wrist, and we’d sat that way, waiting, my pulse beating against his cheek, his breath warming my skin. …