Cold Stone and Ivy (16 page)

“Pomfrey?”

“It was anarchy, sir.”

“Tea?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. And a fire, sir. At once, sir.”

And the man immediately turned to start the fire, had it roaring in good time, and quietly left the study for the kitchen.

Christien sighed, slipped the locket from his pocket, let it dangle from his fingers. As it spun on its chain, he marvelled at how each of the metal gears caught the light in a different way. The glass that housed the tiny instrument was in need of a polish, and he was certain that his pocket was not the best place for it. Still, the way Williams and his strange Club had looked at it, he felt much safer with it on him than in any room of Hollbrook House.

Perhaps he
should
take out a safe at Lloyds.

As it twirled at the end of its chain, he ran his mind over the discoveries of the last few days. Annie Chapman was rumoured to have three brass rings, which were removed after her murder. John Williams was in possession of three brass rings, one of which had grown very tight on his little finger. Williams ran clinics for the street girls of the East End, and abortions were by far the most common procedures during the clinics. He had seen the name of Mary Anne “Polly” Nichols in Williams’s book, along with a mention of a procedure gone wrong. Abortions often went wrong, Christien had discovered. Women went septic, some died. He and the boys spent hours covering up for Williams in that regard but he was beginning to wonder how far or how deep this problem went.

The locket was still in his fingers when he slipped off to sleep.

“OH NO, DEAREST
,” said Merryl Dewhurst-Smythe, and she laid a hand over Penny’s. “It’s not at all what you think.”

“Not at all,” repeated her sister, Berryl Dewhurst-Smythe.

“No?” asked Penny. “But then, why would the Crown employ a German scientist to guard British national secrets? It simply does not make sense. We British are a sensible people.”

“But darling,” said Merryl. “Dr. von Freud engineered the heart, not for Victoria firstly, but for Durand.”

“Durand?” Penny frowned. “Alexandre Gavriel St. Jacques Lord Durand?”

“The very one, dearest.”

“The very one,” said Berryl.

Merryl leaned forward. “He lost his heart, you know. As a boy.”

“As a boy.”

“And since von Freud was a friend of the family, he simply engineered one. Put it in himself.”

“Himself.”

Penny sat back, deep in thought. “So this elusive baron, this Mad Lord of Greystoke, has no heart?”

“Not since Queen Regina Imperiatrix needed one. Von Freud used the same design on Regina Imperiatrix as Durand, but the War Office thought it too dangerous. Someone could simply kidnap or kill the Lord, steal his heart, and find a way to sabotage our dear Regina Imperatrix the same way.”

“The very same way,” said Berryl.

“So then, Lord Durand . . .”

“Precisely, darling,” said Merryl. “Alexandre Gavriel St. Jacques Lord Durand . . . has no heart . . .”

“No heart . . .”

“No heart,” said Penny, and she set her mind to finally speak to this man, and we all know that once our plucky heroine sets her mind to something, it invariably happens.

THE RAIN STARTED
just after dinner.

In fact, it seemed the skies were falling, and she had to admit that she was trapped inside Lasingstoke Hall. And so with VINCE and his teapot next to her, she sat in a window seat of the library at Second, writing and watching the raindrops run down the glass.

She missed her mother terribly.

She missed her frail, bird-like hands, her empty eyes, her tight drawn lips. Whenever she was tending her, Ivy would talk. She would describe the sights, the weather, the time of day. She would sing songs, tell stories, or read letters that had been sent from distant relatives. Her mother had been a loving woman before Tobias’s death. Deep down, Ivy knew that she was still in there somewhere. It was impossible to think otherwise.

What was it about love that caused so much pain, she wondered? Did she love Christien enough to be his wife or was it friendship that had taken a wrong turn somewhere? He was a very good prospect for a girl like her, but was that all she was looking for in life? Was she settling for less because she couldn’t imagine anything better?
Is that the life you want for yourself,
Sebastien had asked
.
Could he have possibly been right in any of his observations? If so, what did that say about her, to give up her dreams so easily?

And if he was right, what on earth did that say about him?

She looked at VINCE. He seemed happy to simply sit, her teacup balancing perfectly atop his squared head.

“VINCE?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love?”

“Love. An intense feeling of deep emotion. Love.” His eyepieces whirred a moment as his logarithms engaged. “Conversation. Castlewaite. Lasingstoke. Sheep. Yes. To the fullest extent of my programming, I love.”

He inclined his head, and she watched the teacup slide, just a little. “Do you love, Ivy Savage?”

She smiled sadly. “I do, VINCE. Very much. I love my mother and father. I love my crazy brother. I think I still love Tobias, even though he’s dead. Is it mad to love a dead person?”

“No,” said VINCE. “Just sad.”

“Mm. I love writing. Yes, I love writing very much. And I do love Christien. He’s so very perfect . . .”

“Not like a sheep,” said VINCE. “Sheep are not perfect. But I love them. Their imperfections make them lovable.”

“Hmm,” she said. “You are very wise for a robot.”

“I know,” said VINCE.

She sighed, watching the trees bend in the gales, and she thought of Dr. Frankow.
“He’s part machine,”
Fanny had said
. “All cogs and gears and metal shafts.”
Could her mother be treated by such a man? Could she be loved?

“No Czech machine-man should be experimenting on any Englishman.”

What had she done?

She leaned her forehead against the windowsill, sleepy, melancholic, and waiting for the morning to come. Once again, she thought of Sebastien de Lacey, remembered how he stroked the grey horse, how he talked to the air and held her wrists. The large dark spectacles, the painting in silhouette, the blood on his cheek.

“Hypersensory Mental Acuity, Spiritualism, and Communion with the Realm of Departed Souls,”
Franny had said. Spiritualism was all the rage in London.

But they were a far cry from London.

What had Frankow done to him?

She closed her eyes and slept, waiting for a break in the rain.

IT IS RAINING
in Lancaster, and she ducks into a doorway to keep dry. She has not made much tonight. The rain keeps most away. It’s hard to make a living when there is always rain.

A shape moves past, slowly in the darkness. He is well dressed, she can tell. It serves her well if she can tell. The gents expect a little more, and if she’s smart, she gives it to them. They pay her well for the illusion.

She is hungry, but she hates the rain, so she slides her skirts up to her thigh, slips her leg out into the lamplight. If he’s looking, he’ll see. If not, she stays dry. Either would be fine tonight.

He pauses, turns back as if thinking. His felt hat is effective for keeping the water off his face, and his collar is turned up against the gales. Slowly, he moves back toward her and she is on, performing like a stage actress calling the spotlight.

“Hello, luv,” she coos. “It’s a cold night. Spare a bob an’ I’ll keep ye warm.”

She can’t make out his face, but reaches for the wool coat, pulling him closer. There is an understanding in her trade. Most men abide by it. It is the way of the world. He strokes her face with the back of a gloved hand, and she sees his eyes, light and clear like a summer day. She likes the light eyes. They are so very pretty.

He turns her away from him, so that he is hugging her from behind. She arches her back, pressing into him. They like that. His hands are moving along her waist, her bodice, her neck. She leans her head back so she can smell him and it is the scent of clean laundry and steam and brandy. This one could be good, she thinks. This one likes his pleasures, takes his time, knows his women—

Sharp jerk at her throat. Heat. A second jerk, and she is gone.

Of Lost Loves, Wet Dogs,
and a Very Strange Wallpaper

TAP, CLANK, HISS
. Tap, clank, hiss. Large eyes looming, whirring, clicking. Straps and buckles, chains and locks. Tap, clank, hiss.

It was still storming when she awoke, and she lay for a while, eyes closed, listening to the sound of rain pelting the windows. The floors would be cold, so she drew her blankets up a little higher, wishing for just a few more minutes in the comfort of her bed.

But she could hear the crackle of a healthy fire, could smell the sharp, bitter scent of a cigarette, and it suddenly occurred to her that she wasn’t in her bed. In fact, she wasn’t in her room at all.

She opened her eyes and realized with horror that she was still in the library of Second. She must have fallen asleep at the window. Somehow, sometime, she had moved or had
been
moved to the settee, and the thought filled her with dread.

She hiked the blanket higher and sat up. VINCE was gone, and there was a man sitting, reading a newspaper
.
It was Rupert. He was drinking coffee, not tea, and she wasn’t surprised. Many men who liked the sharp, bitter taste of cigarettes also liked the sharp, bitter taste of coffee. It made her wonder at their taste in women.

He glanced her way, took a long drag of the cigarette. Blew it out slowly as he studied her. Finally, he smirked.

“Good morning, skirt.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“Nip into the wine cellar, last night, did we?”

All she could think to say was, “No.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you look terrible in the morning? I’ll wager Remy has never seen you like this.”

“I can assure you, sir, that I frequently look worse.”

He grinned at that, and she thought he looked rather less fearsome when he smiled.

He indicated a second wing chair by the fire. “Come, sit. I’m quite certain I can bear your terribleness a while longer.”

And so, bundling up the blanket, Ivy removed herself from the settee and shuffled across the room to sit in the chair. Strands of hair fell into her face, and she was sure he was telling the truth about her appearance.

He held up the silver urn. “Coffee?”

“Is there tea?”

“I’ll call Cookie.”

“Coffee is perfect.”

He grinned again, and she thought that when he did, he looked like a lazy cat. Big teeth, cunning eyes. She wasn’t surprised he had claws. He reached for the coffee urn and began to pour. It was a full setting, with cream, sugar, silver spoons, and two china cups. Some fashionable folk refused to refill a once-used cup. Rupert did not seem the type to care. He passed one her way.

She lifted the coffee to her lips, knowing it would not likely have nearly enough cream or sugar, but she drank anyway, needing the heat to warm her blood. It was very strong, and she gagged as it went down.

“By God, you’re a charmer,” he said, shaking his head and going back to the paper.

She glanced out the window. It was black outside and gusting, and she was very grateful she was indoors. There was a sweeper humming along the floor of the library, under the chair legs, over the carpets.

She looked at Rupert. With him sitting like this, engrossed in his news, she could imagine now what Christien would look like in twenty years or so. Truthfully, with the exception of the foul disposition, it wasn’t such a bad thought.

The sweeper was humming along around his feet, and with a snort, he gave it a kick, sending it whirring away out of the library, bumping into everything as it passed.

“No wonder they’re all broken,” she said.

He harrumphed, bent back to his paper. She continued to study him, and finally, he peered at her from the corner of his eye.

“Why are you staring at me, skirt?”

“You look like Christien.”

He blinked slowly.

“What was he like as a boy?”

“Remy?” He seemed to consider this, and she thought he might snort again, but instead folded his paper and leaned back in his chair. The cigarette was still in his fingers, spilling ash upon the carpet. From the looks of it, he sat here often.

“Remy was a quiet boy. Thoughtful. Too thoughtful, if you ask me. Very intense, very self-controlled. He did well in his studies. Of the two of them, Remy is most like his father.”

“His father, the Sixth Lord of Lasingstoke. He was your brother?”