A Split Worlds Omnibus

by Emma Newman

  Cathy shrugged. She couldn’t think of anything to say. All of the words that would have so easily tumbled out had sunk to the bottom of her since Exilium.

  “That good, huh? How about William?”

  “What about him?”

  Lucy sighed and put her cup down. “Are you both OK? Are you settling into married life?”

  Cathy picked up one of the small plates. “Would you like a sandwich?”

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy said. “I thought…I overstepped the mark, didn’t I?”

  “No, not at all.” Cathy didn’t know where to look or what to say.

  “I thought we could talk like normal people do, you know, because of what you told me that night I first met you about Mundanus.”

  “Of course we can.” Cathy regretted that confession. It seemed like it was years ago but was only a few weeks. At least Lucy hadn’t reacted badly.

  “Are you sure you’re OK?”

  Cathy checked the sleeve of her dress was covering the bandage. It was so tempting to make an excuse and send Lucy back home but she didn’t want to be rude. “I’m fine. It’s just hard.”

  Lucy nodded. “I know. That’s why I wanted to see you. I know how weird it is. One moment you’re alone and the next you’re supposed to fit in with another person’s life. And knowing what I do about…before…I figured it would be even harder for you.”

  Cathy just nodded, fearing that if she spoke she’d weep. She didn’t want to let Lucy in, she didn’t want to talk about how she felt and what was going on. She wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep until it all went away.

  “Is there any way I can help?” Lucy asked.

  “I don’t suppose you have a kick-ass Charm to make the Irises forget I ever existed?”

  Lucy shook her head.

  “Damn,” Cathy muttered. “I suppose I’ll have to make do with cake instead.”

  “You don’t want to run away again, do you?” When Cathy said nothing Lucy came over and sat next to her. “My God, you do, don’t you?”

  “If I could I would.”

  “But what about William?”

  “It wouldn’t break his heart. He could marry Amelia. Then she’d be Duchess. I’m sure she’d love it and he’d be much happier with her.”

  “The Alba-Rosa?”

  “Former Alba-Rosa.”

  “But what would you do in Mundanus?”

  “What I was doing before.” Apart from the Josh part, Cathy thought. “I’d go back to my studies and get on with the original plan.” Lucy’s expectant gaze was hard to resist. “I want to be a human rights lawyer.”

  Lucy glanced at the book. “I think you’ll like that novel. I hear the Irises are pretty strict about—”

  “I don’t want to talk about them.” Cathy didn’t want to talk about any of it. She didn’t want to be reminded of dreams that seemed so unobtainable now. Would Lord Iris know she was thinking about running away again?

  “There’s something I don’t get.” Lucy’s voice penetrated the fog of worry. “You say you want to stand up for people who don’t have a voice, but what about the ones you already know?”

  “Who?”

  “The women in Nether society.”

  Cathy twisted to face her sister-in-law fully. “Eh?”

  “Jeez, you’re something, Cathy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You think you’re the only woman who hates the way we have to live? I didn’t think you were so—”

  “Now just wait a minute.” Cathy abandoned her tea cup. “All of the women I’ve met in Society seem happy as Larry with their dresses and powerful husbands. They like the way things are.”

  Lucy’s eyebrows arched high. “Really? You’ve asked them?”

  “Well, no.”

  “So you’ve just assumed that because they’re behaving the way they should in public?”

  Cathy looked away.

  “Listen.” Lucy’s hand touched her arm gently. “I don’t want to make you feel bad. I just don’t understand why you feel the need to fight for people in Mundanus when there are plenty in Londinium and in Aquae Sulis who don’t have a voice either.”

  “You’re seriously telling me that there are women in the Great Families who hate the way we’re treated?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t see you leaping up to champion them.” Cathy regretted the words as soon as they’d left her mouth. “Sorry. That was rude of me.”

  If Lucy was offended she didn’t show it. “Honey, no one is going to listen to someone from the colonies who’s been here less than a year. But they do sometimes let their guard down with people they don’t care about impressing. Like me.”

  “But I’ve never seen any hint of anyone being angry with it all like I am.”

  “But I bet you’ve never looked for the signs and I bet you’ve never asked them. It’s not the done thing here. How many women do you really know?”

  There were none and Cathy felt like a fool. She’d spent all of her life pushing against Society, completely convinced she was the only one who felt out of place, when it made perfect sense for there to be other women just as unhappy as her. How many times had she tried to just fit in and keep quiet to avoid attention? What if they were doing the same thing out of fear of being the only one who felt there should be more to life than what was allocated to them by their husbands and fathers?

  “Albion sure is a strange place.” Lucy didn’t seem to like silence. “It’s like it’s stuck, it just can’t seem to evolve.”

  “Are things very different in America?”

  “Hell, yes!” Lucy laughed. “I think you’d like it there much more than here. Seems to me that Albion needs something to shake it up and knock the dust off all these ancient Patroons who don’t realise how much things have changed.” She looked at Cathy. “Or someone.”

  Cathy shook her head. “There’s no way I could do anything. Who’s going to listen to me?”

  Lucy looked like she was about to answer but then just smiled. “I didn’t come here to give you a hard time. How about a tour of the house? Tom will want to know all about it.”

  Cathy nodded but it felt like Lucy had just dropped a bomb in the room and then wanted to talk about anything but the things it had broken. The dream of escape was now tainted with the creeping fear that achieving her goal wouldn’t be a glorious triumph of successful rebellion but instead a cowardly act. Was it right to leave others to quietly suffer the fate she couldn’t accept for herself?

  Like you could do anything anyway, she thought. But there was no comfort in reminding herself of how worthless her father had always considered her to be.

  16

  The butler closed the front door after the last of the guests left with smiles and promises to meet for tea. Will smiled at Cathy who sighed with relief.

  “That went well,” he said. “Are you tired?”

  “More relieved than tired,” she replied and then whispered, “I have got to get out of this dress.”

  Will watched her go upstairs as he loosened his cravat. The first soirée they’d hosted since their arrival had gone well. Bartholomew had talked to Cathy at length for a portion of the evening and Will made a mental note to ask her what they’d discussed. When Cathy was out of sight he put his hand in his pocket and brushed the small glass bottle with his fingertips. It had been in his pocket and on his mind all evening.

  “Will that be all, sir?” Morgan asked.

  “Could you bring two cups of hot milk to me in the drawing room?”

  Morgan bowed and Will was left in the hallway. He looked up the stairs and decided to have a brandy in the drawing room first.

  “What a bloody palaver that was,” said a maid in one of the receiving rooms. He could hear the chink of glasses being put onto trays, and the general bustle of post-party tidying.

  “She did it though, didn’t she? Don’t look much, but she kept her head.”

  Even though he’d been taught
from an early age not to pay attention to the servants he found himself lingering at the doorway.

  “She asked me if I was all right earlier,” the first was saying. “Fancy that.”

  “I think that’s strange. She don’t know how to be the lady of the house, that’s her trouble.”

  “I think it’s nice. I was dead on my feet from all the lifting and she noticed. She—”

  Will stepped into the doorway. The two parlour maids froze for a moment, then bobbed curtsies.

  “Begging your pardon sir, we won’t be long,” the first one said with a blushing smile. She was very young. He couldn’t remember either of their names; they’d only arrived the day before with over a dozen other servants.

  “Palaver?” he asked, and their cheeks blazed.

  “With the furniture, sir,” the second said.

  “Was there a problem?”

  They looked at each other. “It didn’t arrive, sir,” the first said eventually. “The Agency said it would be here this morning, but by the afternoon there was still no sign of it.”

  “The furniture in here?”

  “Yes, sir, and the red drawing room. You was out. Mr Morgan tried to get a message to the Agency but we didn’t get a reply.”

  He’d been with Amelia overnight and with Cornelius most of the day, discussing the guests who’d spent the evening with them. He’d only had time to bathe and dress before the first ones arrived. “I had no impression of there being any problems when I returned this evening.”

  “Well, Mrs Iris had solved it all by then, sir. We don’t know how she did it, but it was all delivered and in place before you got back.”

  “Not even Mr Morgan knows how,” the second one said. “But he was very impressed, sir, we all were.”

  “We was worried you’d get back to empty rooms and the guests would have to be turned away.” The first had clearly enjoyed the drama.

  Cathy hadn’t mentioned anything. She’d greeted him as if she’d spent the afternoon resting, as he’d hoped she would, not rushing around saving them from social death. When he’d been kissing Amelia goodbye, greedily stealing a few minutes with her in private as the carriage was prepared, Cathy had been dealing with a crisis and sought no credit for it when he’d reappeared.

  He left the maids to their work, needing the brandy more than ever. Over the first week of their marriage, Cathy had impressed one of the most powerful families in Londinium, become the object of inappropriate affection from another, endured a harrowing experience in Exilium that she still couldn’t bring herself to talk about, and had executed every wifely duty—save one—with unexpected success.

  Her steadfast refusal to carry out that one duty was making him consider something terrible. He’d been patient but that was easy when he had Amelia, who was all too happy to slake his thirst. He’d done everything he could to ease Cathy into every other aspect of married life as gently as possible. They’d actually started to have proper conversations instead of just arguments; she was adapting to him and he, in turn, to her. When she was debating something passionately with Bartholomew or Margritte, or laughing at some comment he’d made, he’d been attracted to her. But every time he tried to kiss her in anything other than a brotherly way, she rejected him and then retired to her rooms. Whilst it was far from unusual to sleep separately, everyone else did that after consummating the marriage.

  Will poured the brandy, giving himself a generous measure. When he saw the blood after she’d returned from Lord Iris, he knew there had to be more than interrogation behind it, and her refusal to talk about it only made the suspicion stronger. It was no surprise when he was summoned four days later.

  “Your milk, sir,” Morgan said, entering through the open door with a tray. “Is there anything else you require?”

  “No, thank you, Morgan. Oh, one thing, I understand the Agency let us down today.”

  “Abominably sir, but Mrs Iris instructed me not to trouble you with it.”

  “Did they explain themselves or send an apology?”

  “No, sir,” he replied. “I’ve never known anything like it.”

  “I see. Goodnight, Morgan.”

  “Goodnight, sir.”

  Will waited until the door was closed and took the bottle out of his pocket. “I’ve been patient,” he said to himself. “She’s being unreasonable.”

  He took another swig of the brandy but its warmth didn’t comfort him. He inspected the plain green glass bottle, unlabelled in case it was found by a servant or—worse—his wife. It wouldn’t hurt her. He would be as gentle as he could, he even hoped she might enjoy it. He’d been told it was rare for the woman to fall pregnant the first time and he didn’t want to have to resort to this again.

  He put the bottle on the tray and swilled the last of the brandy around the glass, irritated with his procrastination. His father wouldn’t have given it a second thought—then again, he wouldn’t have listened to her protests on the wedding night. But he wasn’t like his father.

  “It’s wrong,” he muttered and picked up the bottle to put it in his pocket. But then he remembered Lord Iris asking why she was still virginal. How did he know? Had she admitted it under duress?

  Will had never experienced the wrath of the Fae and didn’t want this to be the reason for the first time. He slammed the brandy glass down, uncorked the bottle and dumped its contents into the cup on the right. Then he gulped down some of the milk from the other cup so that at a glance he would know that hers was the fuller of the two.

  The milk soured in his belly as he carried the tray up the stairs. With every step, he tried to convince himself it was the best for both of them. Once she realised it wasn’t going to be awful, perhaps relations would be better between them. He’d heard tales of girls reaching their wedding night and having no idea what was supposed to happen with their husband. Perhaps Cathy’s ignorance was fuelling a fear of it. That didn’t seem right though; she seemed more worldly than him sometimes.

  Her lady’s maid was leaving as he reached the top of the stairs. Upon seeing him she curtsied and left the door open when he gestured that he was on his way to Cathy. He knocked and went in. She was perched on the edge of the bed, sitting unnaturally stiffly. The pillow next to her was crooked and he wondered what she had stuffed under there so quickly.

  She was dressed in a blue silk nightgown and robe that brought out the colour of her eyes. Her hair had been let down and the elaborate pinning for the soirée had left loose curls that rippled down her shoulders. There was a slight flush to her cheeks as she watched him set the tray down on the dressing table.

  “I brought you some milk,” he said.

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  He left it on the tray, not wanting to appear too keen for her to drink it. She was tense and seemed more so when he closed the door. “I heard about the furniture.”

  “I told Morgan not to—”

  “I overheard the parlour maids talking about it. How did you solve the problem?”

  “You don’t honestly want to know, do you? It’s very boring.”

  “They didn’t make it sound that way.”

  She shrugged. “They just don’t understand it, that’s all. I went into Mundanus, I made a few phone calls, it’s no big deal or anything. When you’re in London and very rich there are very few domestic problems that can’t be solved with money.”

  How in the Worlds had she known who to call? It certainly wouldn’t have occurred to his mother to solve the problem in that way. But it wasn’t the time to ask. “I wanted to thank you. It sounds like you handled it all brilliantly.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, it’s not like I saved a man’s life. It was some sofas, tables and chairs. You make it sound like I was some superhero.”

  He approached her slowly. “May I sit next to you?”

  She nodded after a beat, wary. “Aren’t you tired?”

  “No. I need to unwind after those kinds of events.” He sat—not too close—and she pulled her leg
s up and tucked her knees under her chin, making the silk pool over her toes. When he glanced at them she tucked the fabric underneath her feet. “What was Bartholomew talking to you about?”

  “We were discussing the Enlightenment.”

  “All that time?”

  “It’s interesting. And we talked about the student strikes at the University of Paris when the church tried to stop them learning logic and rational thinking. You know, oppression, control of intellectual pursuits in patriarchal societies, that sort of thing.”

  “The Tulipas have been speaking very highly of you in Londinium circles,” he said, letting his pride show.

  “I like them,” she said. “I never thought I would ever say that about anyone in Society, but they’re interesting, and they don’t mind if I show that I actually know something more than which colour is fashionable.”

  “It’s very different to Aquae Sulis, isn’t it?”

  She agreed and scratched her wrist. “I’ll be glad when this bandage can come off.”

  “May I see?”

  She extended her hand and he gently slid the silk up her arm to reveal the neat white bandage. Unlike the first few days it wasn’t stained with blood. He carefully undid it and inspected the wounds. “This is healing nicely,” he said. “Do you have a clean dressing?”

  “I’ll get one.” She slipped off the bed and went into the adjoining dressing room.

  He lifted her pillow and found a paperback novel with some sort of bizarre contraption on the cover. It appeared to be in outer space, heading towards a planet. He replaced the pillow and when she came back he re-dressed her wrist. “This will be off by the end of the week. Lucky we haven’t had a ball to go to yet.” He tied off the bandage and caught hold of her hand. “Are you all right, Cathy?”

  She just looked at him for a few moments. “Why do you ask?”

  “You haven’t been the same since you went into Exilium.”

  “For the worse or the better?”

  “You seem less angry.”

  She didn’t reply, easing her hand from his grasp. “I suppose I’ve been trying to be a good wife.” She spoke with such sadness it was as if she were talking about a bereavement.