The Derring-Do Club and the Empire of the Dead (18 page)

Pieter did not look or sound convinced himself.

“How?”

Heavy boots stomped towards the room: “Pieter!!!”

“Gustav!”

Pieter pushed Earnestine back and stood between her and the doorway. In the jiffy she had, Earnestine hid behind the tapestry.

“Graf,” Pieter said.

“Mein Bruder.”

Earnestine held her breath and desperately wracked her brains for the identity of this man. ‘Bruder’, of course, he must be the Graf, Pieter’s elder brother. She’d seen him briefly before, of course: this was the man with the military plans, the one with a fondness for airships and Charlotte. What a silly girl, you only had to hear two words from him in a foreign language to know he was a bad sort.

“Is father ready?”

“Doctor Death is attending to him now and then he’s to meet the Princess.”

“These mechanisms, these scientific devices, are wasted keeping one man in the semblance of life,” said Pieter using English, and Earnestine realised that he was partly speaking for her benefit. “Nature should be allowed to take its course.”

“You wish me to be Crown Prince already.”

“Nein, I mean, Ja; of course, it is your right.”

“But that would mean an end to the Great Plan.”

“I don’t see how marrying that young girl to father… it’s wrong.”

“No–one cares if a royal is mad, diseased or simple, just that he is alive.”

“Alive?” Pieter choked back a cry.

“I have an alternative, if only Mordant would give us the secret,” the Graf replied. “Think of this knowledge applied like a cotton mill, life brought about on an industrial scale. My ambition is not to wait a few generations to marry into the right circles, but to take what we want with warfare. It will be a conflict on a scale never before imagined. We will become like the Spartans of old, a society dedicated to warfare, but whereas those ancient Greeks were foot soldiers, we will be the officer class – a race born to lead from high above in the heavens and our troops will be the very fiends brought back from hell.”

“The British Empire must not allow–”

“The British Empire is effete. Its people play with a straight bat, isn’t that the expression? The British won’t know what hit them.”

Pieter had used the word ‘
must’
, Earnestine realised: it was an order, a mission and it coincided with her own. Except, the tapestry was dusty and she was going to sneeze. Could she risk moving her hand to nose or would that cause the covering to ripple?

“Your toys are nearly ready then?”

“Ja… why are you telling me something I already know… and in English.”

With a flourish, Earnestine was revealed. The tapestry tumbled to the ground. Earnestine tried to remain aloof as if she was supposed to be there, but the dust made her splutter and wave her hands.

“What’s this?” the Graf said, approaching.

“Leave her alone!”

The Graf laughed: “You shouldn’t get too fond of your playthings. Is she good?”

“I am not!” Earnestine objected, and then she felt foolish.

“Why brother, you have not broken her in.”

Pieter flushed with shame or anger – Earnestine wasn’t sure.

“Do you want me to do it for you?” the Graf joked.

“Nein, lassen Sie sie allein, sie ist meine!”

The Graf guffawed: “Perhaps, brother, we should fight a duel.”

“Pistols at dawn?”

“Sabres, here, now.”

The Count made a magnanimous gesture to indicate the walls of the ante–chamber. The ornamentation, signs of history, consisted of shields, emblems and weapons, so that what had been mere decoration changed in Earnestine’s mind to become the sharp instruments of combat that they had been before they were put on display.

“These are old.”

“As is the night, brother, choose – or accept my authority.”

Prince Pieter scanned the swords, grambouchaums and pikes, picked out a pair of crossed sabres and fetched one down.

“Pieter!” Earnestine cried out and immediately felt cowed by Graf Zala’s angry gaze. “Your Royal Highness, Pieter, I believe that duelling is forbidden within your regiment.”

That was a guess, but she had heard that dictate before. There had been a story in
The Times
about two officers disgraced by duelling over a bet.

“Are you going to hide behind your dollymop’s skirts,” the Graf taunted as he selected his weapon, a similar rapier to Pieter’s own.

“Excuse me!” Earnestine was not going to stand for that and she gave him her Prefect’s stare.

Zala’s eyes held Earnestine’s and then he very deliberately licked his lips.

Pieter leapt forward, slashing wildly to be parried by Zala.

“Good, good,” the Graf joked, “I see she has given you spirit.”

They circled: Prince Pieter nervous and backing off. Clearly the elder brother was the superior swordsman, bigger in frame with a longer reach, and he had a relaxed, arrogant stance.

“I will give you a scar, brother, something to brag about in the officers’ mess,” Zala taunted, “and when you are in the infirmary being treated, I shall take another weapon and see to your dolly–mop’s scar.”

Pieter struck quickly, a stab, a parry and a cut: Earnestine was furious too although she wasn’t entirely sure she knew the Graf’s meaning.

“Stoppen Sie sofort!” It was the Vögte bursting in.

The clanging swords silenced, their echoes still reverberating through the stone chamber.

“Vögte, Vögte, mein Freund,” the Graf said.

“Zweikampf ist verboten!” said the Vögte, his thin frame somehow filling the doorway.

“Pardon me,” said Earnestine.

“Duelling is verboten,” the Vögte said.

“Don’t order me,” the Graf replied, towering over the servile man, but the Vögte held his ground.

“We are practising,” the Graf continued. “I am teaching my brother as any good brother would. See, the… Secretary, was it? I am showing her how much of a man Prince Pieter is.”

“Your father awaits you,” the Vögte announced.

The Graf laughed as he left: “Lock her in your room.”

“Ja,” the Vögte answered.

“I’ll do it,” said Pieter.

The Vögte stared at him.

“You are holding up the ceremony,” said Pieter. “You don’t want the Gräfin to know that, do you?”

The Vögte bowed and then hurried after the Graf leaving Pieter and Earnestine alone.

“So I’m your prisoner again?” Earnestine said.

The Prince went over to the desk taking a small key from his pocket. He unlocked a drawer and removed a folded sheet of paper.

“You were looking for this,” he said. He slipped it into an envelope and held it out for Earnestine to take. She took it with her left hand, unthinkingly, and realised that he had offered it with his left: it meant acceptance, but surely only of the letter and not some proposition.

Earnestine went to open it, but Pieter stopped her.

“It is in German and you don’t have the time,” he said, “although perhaps you do for a kiss.”

“Oh, very well,” Earnestine said, as she slipped the envelope into her shoulder bag and offered her hand. These foreign Gentlemen had such strange customs, but when in Rome do–

The man pulled her towards him and planted his lips on hers: Earnestine struggled and then it was over.

“Now I have something to remember you by,” said Pieter. “Here is something in return – think of me.”

He slipped a ring off his right hand and slipped it over the middle finger of Earnestine’s left hand.

“I’m free to go?”

“You are free of me, if you wish,” Pieter replied. “But the others will try to stop you.”

He clicked his heels together, bowed smartly, turned and walked out.

Earnestine put her fingers to her lips, touching where his mouth had been to try and elicit the sensation again.

And then she ran.

Miss Georgina

“Ladies first,”? said Merryweather.

“You first, Merry. I think the experienced climber should go first to discover any obstacles to our ascent,” said Georgina, very much aware that she was wearing a dress and not wanting to be vulnerably placed above this man. He might see an ankle or… perish the thought.

“Georgina, my dear, if you go first then I can catch you if you fall.”

“But I don’t want to be responsible for knocking you off, so you should go first.”

“We’ll be tied together to be safe.”

Georgina tilted her head to one side like a governess until Merryweather realised he wasn’t going to win. The officer stretched out the end of a rope and tied it expertly around his waist. He handed the other end to Georgina, who looped it around herself and then fiddled as she made a few abortive attempts to attach it.

“Here,” said Merryweather, taking it off her, “let me tie the knot.”

He looped it back around her waist, reaching around her with his strong arms, and for some unknown reason Georgina felt quite breathless. And they hadn’t even started climbing yet. Merryweather’s expert fingers inveigled the rope and a quick jerk checked it was secure.

“We’re attached now,” he said.

“Until death do us part.”

Georgina regretted the joke immediately: there was the perilous drop as well as the shaming embarrassment of suggestion.

“I– I–”

Without another word, Merryweather turned to the rock face, selected a good starting position and then began climbing. Carefully and methodically, he made rapid progress tugging the rope as he went. The loops of rope at Georgina’s feet uncoiled until the final one rose from the ground, straightened and gently tugged Georgina towards the mountain.

“Miss, if you can keep some slack in the rope,” he called down, “and don’t look down.”

“I will directly,” Georgina shouted back.

Here goes, she thought, taking grip of the cold stone. The sharp edges bit into her hands, loose dirt caused her fingers to slip, and her boots felt awkward, but she too was making progress. Concentrating on each step took all her faculties until climbing became everything.

The mountain was steep, but not vertical and the rock itself was split and shattered by the elements, so although it looked difficult, some sections were almost as easy as climbing a ladder. This gave her a false confidence until a chunk of rock came away under the pull of her hand in a shower of gravel. She closed her eyes and hung on, hearing the falling rubble bounce and careen below her. The debris bounced off the path, a ledge really, and continued its descent down the cliff.

“Georgina, are you all right? Georgina? Georgina?”

“I’m–” she had to spit the grit from her mouth in a most unladylike fashion. “I’m well.”

“Do take care.”

Oh, why didn’t I think of that, she thought. Charlotte had died on this mountain and she had nearly done the same.

Georgina started up again, carefully, but something grabbed her, pulled her down savagely: her dress was caught. It would be ruined. Once she felt secure, she reached down and ripped it off a jagged outcrop.

Upward again, moving to the left, guided by the rope that went up to Merryweather, which perplexed her until she saw how much easier the going was on that side.

Looking up, she saw that there was enough slack, so she paused to regain her breath and recruit herself. Behind her, the view was spectacular with magnificent snow–capped mountains, it was awe inspiring, and below her was–

Every limb gripped harder, the knuckles on her hands went white and her toes pinched into the crevice with force. She pushed her face against the cold stone, held her body as close as it would go and breathed, rapidly, her lungs expanding uncontrollably, and each intake threatened to fling her from the cliff face and plunge her into the ravine.

“Bally hell!”

She couldn’t move, frozen as she was to the spot, and the cold stone leached out more of her resolve with every desperate second.

The rope tugged, the yank making her look up and the jolt making her climb, it was instinctive, calming even, but it was a very long way to fall and Georgina made a point of not looking down again.

Miss Charlotte

“I have something for you,”? the Gräfin announced.

“Ooh,” squealed Charlotte.

They were in her suite in the castle, where the Gräfin had taken her to change before meeting the Crown Prince. The dowager showed her a small box, the sort that hinged open to reveal a piece of jewellery. “This was my great grandmother’s ring, it’s a ruby.”

Charlotte picked up the box and opened it to reveal the big, chunky ring: “Ooh.”

“Put it on.”

Charlotte did so, feeling its weight and the way the light shone through the red stone. Tiny slivers of light, like blades, shivered up the far walls cast there by the gem as it took charge of the candlelight.

“You have it on the wrong finger, my dear.”

Charlotte looked at the old woman with a quizzical expression. The Gräfin raised her own left hand, her fingers splayed, and counted along with her right index finger.

“A ring on your first finger means you are available, your middle finger means you are engaged, third finger is when you are married and the little finger…”

“The little finger?”

“When you are an old maid.”

Charlotte could not stop herself glancing down: the Gräfin’s little finger contained a huge blue stone rammed on in such a way that it looked like it would never be removed.

“Yes, my lot has been to see that my family are all married.”

Charlotte nodded, not knowing what else to do. Despite finding officers to be fascinating, soldiers to be interesting and cadets to be fun, she found other boys to be rather boring; however, she didn’t want to be an old maid as old maids smelt of sherry and did nothing but play bridge. She’d heard Georgina crying once that Earnestine was a monster for not marrying and that she, Georgina, would end up on the shelf as an old maid. Ness, Georgina had complained, you are nearly twenty–one, people are going to wonder what’s wrong with you.

Charlotte moved the ring to her middle finger and it went on easily, loose, but she thought it would stay on.

“There,” the Gräfin croaked, “now change.”