A thousand words filled my thoughts, but of them, I could pluck no perfect sentence.
How would I go about salving this wound?
I did not like failure. I despised circumstances wherein I was fated to lose before the first hand had been drawn.
I had long spent my life avoiding such things, and when I could not, hiding behind the bliss.
Enough was enough. I could not hide nor run from this.
I owed it to my late husband to try; more, I owed it to myself.
I could not step forward without it.
“I have never,” I said, and though it quaked, I firmed my back and pressed on, “in all my life felt as deeply sorry as I do for your loss.”
The fine line of Lady Northampton’s jaw shifted.
“Though it is in some small way my own loss, I know what I feel pales in comparison to a mother’s grief,” I continued, floundering and unable to stop. A knot gathered in my throat; I dared not choke on it. “I know you have never liked me—no,” I added swiftly when her gaze narrowed, “please.”
She did not have to allow me to struggle. She could have ended this all right here, but Lady Northampton did not. Her mouth pinched tighter, wrinkled in terrible sign of effort.
I took it as indication to continue. “I ask for nothing, my lady. Neither apology nor acknowledgement. I deserve neither,” I said softly, gaze falling to my lap.
No. I could not allow such cowardice.
With effort, I dragged my focus again to her. Met her stare and held it. “I am aware that in some way, my mother must have offended you greatly.”
The golden hue of her lashes flared. If I had witnessed a crack in her façade before, it widened as I watched.
“I am sorry,” I added quickly, because I felt I must. “For whatever it was she did, for whatever terrible thing caused such a divide, I am deeply apologetic. How you must have loathed to know your son married her daughter. And then I—”
“Enough.” The word came crusted with ice. The marchioness did not move, but there was no grace to it—no ease of comportment. She did not move, I realized, because to do so would be to reveal the tremors locked behind iron control.
The signs, were I only to look, were there. Minute, subtle, but apparent had I only the generosity to look.
No one, not man nor beast nor marchioness, was truly made of marble.
What a wretched girl I had been.
“Enough of this,” she repeated. Her fingers closed around her tea cup. “This relentless—” She bit off whatever it was she meant to say. “Are you here simply to hound me?”
Behind her, far enough away that I could no longer hear what nonsense she spewed, Lady Rutledge bent and fawned over various rosebuds.
I was grateful to the lady. Without her, I did not know that I’d ever have gotten this chance.
“I would be remiss,” I said to my mother-in-law with great care, “if I did not personally forward my regards. At the very least, I owe you the whole of my repentance.”
The marchioness said nothing at first. Perhaps thinking it over. Perhaps swallowing whatever it was pride forced her to feel.
Or, and I was not so confident that I could assume this to be untrue, perhaps she fought back the desire to see me bodily taken from her house and thrown out into the street.
Even a marchioness might have a point to which no more control could be exerted.
Very calmly, as though she felt none of these things, she sipped at her tea. The sun dappled the table, bent long fingers of radiance over the upswept knot of her veil.
It eased into the fine lines carved at the corners of her eyes.
Such humanity I found when I stopped allowing my conceit to lead my senses.
“To my humiliation, I am forced to inquire,” she finally said to me, her voice low. “That you are no proper child has always been readily apparent, but to leave matters as they are tarnishes the memory of my son and I cannot allow that to remain. Tell me true.” She lifted her chin. “Was there some part of your heart that loved Cornelius?”
I did not hesitate. In the face of such thinly veiled dislike, I could not bring myself to respond in kind. “I did love him.” No matter what quantifiers I wished to include, no matter what demons I wrestled with beside such honesty, they were not hers to contend with.
I would not burden her. I loved Cornelius Kerrigan Compton, Earl Compton, enough to seal my name and troth to his.
I loved him enough to gamble my future upon his support. If it was not the fiery thing I felt for Hawke, it did not lessen Compton’s place in my life. I had trusted him.
I would not demean it, demean him, by comparing him with anyone else.
The corner of her mouth edged up in a smile so profoundly familiar that the knot in my throat swelled. Her son had carried that smile as though a mirror image.
As it had with him, it softened her. Just enough.
All too much.
“I must confess,” she said, once more meeting my eyes direct. “Your answer causes my heart to despise you a little bit more.”
I dipped my chin. “I know.”
When she caught herself toying with her teacup, she set the cup down upon her saucer. “Excuse me,” she said, calm as she ever was, but with less frigidity in tone. She rose with grace. “I have spent too long in the sun.”
Some might consider it rude, some might think it worrisome. I watched the marchioness depart, her chin high in the unassailable haughtiness I had always expected from her, and refrained from acknowledging the tears that filled her eyes.
It cost me nothing to afford her that much.
Lady Rutledge returned to the table as the veranda doors closed behind the marchioness. Her tone one of interest, the lady asked, “Patched it all up, have you?”
I couldn’t be certain. Not without the words. I tipped my face to the lady’s and said with great honesty, “I don’t believe so.”
She harrumphed in a manner that might have been dismissive, were I not more familiar with her. As she sat, she announced, “She and your mother were very close, in their youth. Nigh inseparable.”
“What happened?”
Lady Rutledge shot me a smile of such knowing regard that I found myself flushing ere I even knew why. “Love, of course.”
“Whose?”
“Sharp girl.” The lady allowed that much by way of approval. “The bonds between ladies of a certain inclination can be made quite strong when in opposition to the rest of the world.” She sighed heavily. “Lord knows Society has always held a dim view of females who showed any degree of intellect.”
“But my mother was a darling,” I protested, bemused.
“She was,” Lady Rutledge allowed. “Yet for all her grace and charms, she was the last of us to seek a husband.”
That mattered. In some way, I understood that it mattered. That Lady Rutledge had married, that the marchioness had married; no matter what else might have been in their hearts, they made of themselves wives.
And my mother had been the last.
“Why was she so tardy?” I asked, folding my hands before their tremors make themselves known.
Lady Rutledge’s smile was indulgent. Sipping at her tea gave her time to consider a reply, and so it came with care. “Love,” she said slowly. “It makes of all of us a little foolish. In the end, Almira—that is, Lady Northampton chose the reality of the world we live in over that of any optimistic hope for the future.”
I was rather literally minded, I would agree with that, but I did not need any more explained.
My mother had claimed that my father, lower than her in standing and the source of her loss of face in Society, had been the best choice for her efforts. Immortality, the promise and often the downfall of alchemy, had been her design.
But I knew better than some what a bruised heart would do.
Was it possible that my mother had loved the marchioness?
Or was Lady Northampton another in a long line of souls duped by Jose
phine’s angelic smile?
That such thoughts caused a sadness to well up within me was a truth I struggled to hide from Lady Rutledge’s astute observation.
To think that they were so close as to remain scarred by whatever affections soured between them—and this long after Josephine’s apparent death—gave me a wholly different view of Lady Northampton.
If keeping this truth buried, even from my own curiosity, meant that I might save the marchioness greater pain, then I would not ask again.
“Then,” I said, bringing to bear all that sharpness that Lady Rutledge claimed to admire, “let us speak of esoteric things, shall we?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“So,” mused Lady Rutledge after I had given her an extremely abridged version of events, “you believe the thief to be a Chinese immigrant.”
“At the source,” I replied. “The Menagerie is no more, but the minds that operated such a garden are not to be trifled with.”
The lady inclined her head. I did not know who understood the workings of the Midnight Menagerie, but with as many companions and associates as Lady Rutledge commanded, I suspected she was one. We walked among the garden, having long since finished our tea, and this ensured that the help would not overhear us.
The sun was warm and bright, too harsh in my crape but still better for its embrace than the cold and wet I’d spent too long mired in. Spring was a delightful change of pace.
I had not yet thought of any subtle way to probe my companion’s knowledge on esoteric matters of alchemy, so left out these truths entirely from my explanation of events. If she were enlightened, let her assume that I was not. If she did not know of such feats beyond simple alchemical science, then I would not be the one to enlighten her.
In this way, I kept my promise to Ashmore.
“You say that the villain is a Chinese alchemist?” We paused beneath an arched trellis, whose interwoven fives were heavy with early spring blossoms. “I am not as learned in such matters as some,” she added thoughtfully, “but if this is the case, that might explain the diamond’s need.”
“How so?” I had already reasoned that the Veil, lacking in Menagerie but hardly in wealth, could afford the bounty paid for so large a gem.
What I had not yet ascertained was why.
If the lady bore any hypothesis, I was willing to give it reasonable thought.
As for Lady Rutledge, she seemed no more an agent of the Crown than I, and yet I knew her to be one by my own eyes. At this rate, no one was as they seemed, and I would do well to remember that.
Fortunately, I more than trusted Lady Rutledge’s mind. “What I know of Chinese alchemy,” she began in her robust manner, “is not entirely firsthand knowledge, so do bear with me.”
I nodded, sweeping a folded swatch of veil from my shoulder. “Rest assured, my lady, I know less. Any information you have will be welcome.”
“Very well.” She looked up at the flowers, the sun caught in her eyes and turning them to an oddly violet hue. Her brow furrowed. “As I recall, one of the precepts of Chinese alchemy is to reach immortality.”
I could only nod. That the pursuit of perfection transcended eastern and western alchemical foundation did not surprise me, for immortality was simply a version thereof.
“However, the Orientals have a peculiar version of it,” Lady Rutledge continued. “Through their beliefs of oneness and tranquility and such, they refine the focus to achieving a perfect harmony of body and spirit, which results in immortality.”
“Harmony of body and spirit?” I repeated, but slowly, rolling the taste of it as though it might help my thoughts. It was similar in scope to the revelation I had furnished upon my tutor whilst locked away in that awful house in the countryside.
If the pursuit of perfection was the point of alchemy, then one must take care of the spirit and mind, and not just the physical art of achieving the perfect metal or the longevity of life.
“Diamonds are not gold,” I said, brow knotting. “Is gold not ideal to Chinese alchemists?”
“It is part of the process,” Lady Rutledge said, waving a hand through the air. “However, the diamond body is considered the perfect vessel for the immortal spirit.”
Metaphor or not, at the very least, this suggested a need for diamonds in an alchemical process. “What do you know of the Five Phases, my lady?”
We started walking again, measured pace drifting through bushes of hydrangeas, heavy blossoms delivering a powerful fragrance. It was peaceful here, dappled and bright, and made our conversation all the odder.
“Each is associated with a direction, one of their so called heavenly beasts,” she said, counting them down on her gloved fingers, “aspects of the body, spiritual condition, symbols, foods, seasons…” She trailed off. Then, with a sniff, “I can’t be bothered to keep track of them all.”
It was more than I knew, to be sure. “What of the beasts?”
“Oh, something about dragons and phoenixes.” She waved again, but this time dismissively. “All such things require a bit of finery to make it seem impressive. What I recall most tellingly about their version of alchemy,” she added, a bit of a slant to her mouth that looked almost a sneer, “is that alchemists frequently died ingesting the concoctions of their art.”
“That’s ghastly,” I replied, grimacing at the concept. Alchemy was certainly not a risk free art, but certainly it shouldn’t be more dangerous than the average concept of science.
“Yes, you may think so,” the lady replied, but dryly. “However, the general theory was that there were different stages of immortality. Should the alchemist’s physical body die and leave a sweet-smelling corpse, he was celebrated as having attained immortality in an ephemeral state. Oh,” she added quickly, snapping her fingers. “One more tidbit. If they died and vanished, leaving behind only their clothes, they were said to have achieved a sort of immortality without a corpse.”
I couldn’t understand such nonsense. “Corpses don’t simply vanish,” I pointed out. “When they are said to walk away, there is generally another person attached.” Or, as had been the culprit in a prior case, turned quite invisible by an alchemical serum.
Lady Rutledge’s expression filled to the brim with humor of a condescending sort. “Yes, dear lady, we enlightened know this.”
And yet… The words refused to leave me.
I had seen a great deal of oddities in my brief time as Ashmore’s student. I had witnessed sorcery of a most remarkable source, seen the Trumps that garnered power and affected the material world.
I had witnessed more than Lady Rutledge was willing to allow.
Was it possible that Ma Lài intended to use the diamond as some sort of correspondent for a diamond body? A symbol no different than any other chemical component in a given formula.
Metaphor, I had learned, could be so much more than an image.
By the time Lady Rutledge departed, the afternoon had eased well on towards evening. While there was no sign of the marchioness—and the estate more than large enough to ensure I did not stumble upon her—I found Lord Piers strolling across the front lawn, whistling a jaunty tune.
The sun crept towardsthe horizon, tinting the sky the same shade as Lady Rutledge’s eyes. A hint of purple graced the stunning blue expanse, and clouds scudded across the whole like cotton left on a marvelous canvas.
The earl carried a riding crop, his apparel made to suit the back of a horse, but as he was not accompanied by one, I assumed him to be done with his ride.
From this vantage, I could see only the wide lawns manicured so beautifully by the staff. Beyond, there would be walkways and more carved for them what did not use gondolas, the edges of the raised platforms each district sat upon.
Where the earl had ridden, I did not know. “My lord,” I said in greeting.
“Sister,” replied Piers, with a rather mischievous grasp on courtesy. “Delighted to find you so quickly.”
“Oh?” I eased into step beside him as h
e made his way up the lawn and towards the house. “Is there news?”
“Good news,” he replied, smiling so that his sandy chops lifted. The warmth of his eyes was as a balm to the ache my earlier conversation with his mother had caused. “I am informed that Ashmore has awoken.”
“What?” I clutched at his arm in excitement, all other thoughts scattered to the wind. “Say such things first, you daft man!”
His grin bore no apology. “Your pardon,” he laughed. “Truly.” He patted my gloved hand with ready affection. “I meant to send word as soon as I’d verified it myself. Would you care to accompany me to his side?”
“Of course,” I said quickly, my heart fit to explode. Such relief filled me, and such warmth for this young lord who knew that I could no more enter Ashmore’s room without his escort than I could do anything else in this blasted Society.
Without further ado, Piers accompanied me to Ashmore’s sickbed. The ready—if weary—smile my tutor afforded me upon entering the well-lit chamber cheered me.
He had been allotted a change of clothes, and wore what I assumed was one of Piers’s smoking jackets with marvelous aplomb. His hair still stuck out like a fiery corona, but that his eyes were open and clear absolved him of any gentle mockery I might have levied.
“You’re awake.” I hastened to his side and bent, ignoring all such propriety, to grace his cheek with a kiss.
“I am, indeed,” Ashmore replied, his hand briefly coming to cradle my cheek in kind, then dropping when I straightened again. Dark shadows lined the sockets of his eyes, and his skin retained a touch more yellow than his usual complexion, but he lived.
It was all I could hope for.
“Well returned, old chap,” Piers said, clapping my tutor upon the shoulder with rather more rigorousness than typical for an invalid.
Ashmore’s wince told me he wasn’t recovered just yet. “My thanks,” he replied, rubbing his abused shoulder. His voice was weaker than I recalled, but severity lingered. “Tell me all that I missed.”
Very quickly, and again abridged, I explained what had happened. Piers interjected when appropriate, and Ashmore favored us both with his weighty stare. “I see. I owe you my gratitude,” he added to Piers.
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