by Jean Rabe
“Byron!” Elizabeth wanted to shout, but only a whisper emerged. She saw Perry heading toward where the dog had gone, his strokes strong and sure.
Seconds passed like hours. Elizabeth could feel each heartbeat hammering her chest, every breath drawing in an agony of hovering smoke. Then, as abruptly as he had gone, Byron surfaced. In his mouth, he clutched a toddler, dragging her sodden head into the air.
As one, the crowd stilled, bodies half-drawn to the docks, strokes frozen in mid-movement. Perry reached Byron and took the child from the dog. For a few moments, Elizabeth could see nothing, as dog and man took turns blocking her view. She saw a few of the men start heading back out toward the sunken ship. Then, Perry raised the young child high out of the water. The child gasped, then coughed. Abruptly, she wailed in terror, grabbing for Perry.
She’s alive!
The crowd cheered. Perry placed the toddler carefully onto Byron’s back, and the dog swam back with a leisurely pace clearly designed not to dislodge his rider. As the child settled into place, she clutched the dog’s furry neck in a death grip and stopped screaming.
Byron stepped out onto the shore with Perry at his side, keeping the child balanced. A woman, presumably the child’s mother, seized the toddler and held her close. The child snuggled against her. Once again, the crowd cheered.
Byron shook, sending a spray of water in all directions. No one seemed to notice or care. Most pressed in to embrace the survivors, to examine those who had not yet shown signs of life. A few approached the dog, touching his flag-like tail, his wet fur, his floppy ears now heavy with seawater. His tongue lolled, he panted heavily, and a string of drool dangled from his open mouth.
Perry flopped down beside Byron, and the dog collapsed to the ground, resting his head on Perry’s leg.
From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw the police coming. “Go quickly.” She waved at the pair. “Run!”
Clearly exhausted, Perry shook his head. Byron whined and rolled his gaze to Elizabeth, but he did not move.
Byron’s face held the raw beauty and innocence of the universe, the eyes all-giving, the brows as expressive as anything human. He seemed to know what was coming, resigned, glad to sacrifice himself for the many human lives he had saved.
As the police drew nearer, Elizabeth threw herself across man and dog, burying as much of them as her smaller person allowed. She glared fiercely as the men drew up around her. “If you so much as touch a hair on either of them, I will attack. You will have to kill me first.”
Those nearest the scene went silent, and the hush spread in ever-widening rings. Gradually, Elizabeth’s parents stepped up in front of her, their faces pale, their clothing burnt and sodden. A scarlet line of blood trickled from her father’s cheek where a piece of the ship must have slashed him. Others moved beside them, then still more until Elizabeth looked through a sea of dripping pants and legs and could see nothing of the approaching policemen.
A chant started up: “Save the hero dog! Save the hero dog!” As each additional voice joined the chorus, it became louder and louder until no other sound could penetrate.
Elizabeth hugged Perry and Byron in turn, tears once again coursing down her cheeks. Burying the dead and healing the wounded would take precedence over the next few weeks. After that, Elizabeth would finally have her wedding.
In the Cedar Falls Cemetery, amid the stone markers, stands a statue of a large, powerful-looking dog with long, wavy hair and a blocky head. Inscribed beneath it in Victorian letters is the following:
“Byron Ashmore
Hero of the Lucy Pearl
and the village of May’s Landing.
Lived his first year in secrecy and his last ten
as every man’s favorite son.”
FOR QUEEN AND COUNTRY
Elizabeth A. Vaughan
Elizabeth A. Vaughan writes fantasy romance; her most recent novel is Destiny’s Star, part of the Star Series. At present, she is owned by three incredibly spoiled cats and lives in the Northwest Territory on the outskirts of the Black Swamp, along Mad Anthony’s Trail on the banks of the Maumee River. You can learn more about her books at www.eavwrites.com.
“We are not amused.”
“Your Majesty,” the Prime Minister’s voice held just enough sorrow to indicate sympathy, with a twinge of helpless regret. “I fear we have little choice.”
I wisely kept my eyes down, focused on the rim of the wheeled chair beside me. I had performed my best curtsey when I’d been introduced, then sank to one knee, my black skirts puffing out around me. It had been suggested that I do so to avoid towering over the small, stout lady who ruled the Empire.
“Given the circumstances,” the Prime Minister continued, “Miss Haversham’s unique qualifications are the best and the only ones that will answer.”
A pudgy hand with rings on every finger came into view and lifted my chin. I raised my head obediently, but continued to keep my gaze low.
The Prime Minister continued in the frigid silence. “Miss Haversham is also a recent widow, ma’am, in a sense. Her betrothed died on the eve of their wedding day.”
There was an intake of air at that. I kept my face stoic and resolved, hoping that she’d not inquire about him. My fake betrothed had come into existence in the scant moments before this interview. For my life I could not recall his name. But he made a lovely excuse for unattractive mourning clothes and my hair pulled back into a severe bun.
The temperature in the room warmed. “The best, you say?” The hand was pulled back, and the chair creaked as she shifted within it.
“Highly recommended,” came the firm response.
“Very well,” Her Majesty said briskly. “It has been explained to you, Miss Haversham? What you are to do?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said.
“My godson is a genius,” she continued, oblivious to my response. “You understand? Genius must be nurtured and protected. So far, he has resisted my efforts to see to his wellbeing. And his estates, such as they are . . .” The queen shook her head. “He neglects himself,” she continued. “And you will see to him.”
“Your Majesty,” I said with all due humbleness.
“We share a grief,” she continued. “To have lost our dearest ones too soon. But mind your station, miss.” The queen’s voice was sharp as a blade. “Do not seek to rise above it.”
Her hand gestured, and the chair wheeled off, out of my vision. I waited until the door was closed before I rose to my feet. The Prime Minister let out a puff of breath. “That went better than I anticipated.” He turned to me and raised a bushy eyebrow. “You are ready to depart?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Then collect your weapons from the guard, and be off.”
The carriage rode quite smoothly as it clattered over the rough country roads. I was taken aback by its comfort, since its appearance had given me no confidence. Dusty, unpolished, with seat cushions that were worn and frayed at the edges.
The horses were well-cared for, I’d grant them that, although the driver and footmen’s attire left everything to be desired. Their uniforms were tattered at the cuffs, and the one had a patch at the elbow.
Clearly the task before me would not be an easy one.
We made excellent time from the station, and the carriage pulled up in front of the house before midday. The manor was large and lovely, but the grounds around the house had been sadly neglected. The shrubbery in particular looked like it had been savaged and partially burned recently. I frowned as I pulled on my gloves, adjusted my hat, and took up my parasol.
I alighted with the footman’s aid, but there was no one to greet me at the door. I did not bother with the bell, but opened the door wide and marched straight in.
The foyer was dark, lit only by the light through the curtain gaps. I ran my gloved finger over the side table and tsked at the result.
“Ma’am.” The voice was sharp, and I turned and faced the butler. “How may I assist—”
>
I held up my dusty forefinger. He bristled, but I cut off his response. “Lord Ashington,” I demanded.
“His lordship is in his laboratory and is not to be disturbed.” His voice was smooth enough, but his anger was clear. “Do you have an appointment, Miss . . . ?”
“Haversham. I am his lordship’s new secretary.” I raised an eyebrow. “Lead the way.”
“His lordship said nothing of this to me.”
I kept my eyebrow raised. “And you are?”
A dull red flush started to creep over the man’s collar. “Jervis, ma’am.”
I waited.
“This way, ma’am,” Jervis said, his voice as rigid as his spine.
As we walked, I noted the signs of neglect. Clearly, the management of this household left a great deal to be desired. I didn’t voice my observations, but Jervis’s rigid back told me that vocalization was unnecessary.
He opened the door into the library. A large room with high windows filled with light and shelves of books almost made me smile as I stepped in. A delightful space, warm and bright, with the pleasing scent of old books and leather. A man’s room, certainly, and one I thought well of until I saw the horror that lay before me.
The desk, a massive carved oak table, was covered in papers, strewn about in appalling disarray. In fact, the entire room was one large chaotic pile of correspondence, newspapers, maps, and heaven only knew what all. A secretary’s worst nightmare.
“If you would wait here, Miss.” Jervis said. “I will—”
I knew that ploy all too well. “No. The laboratory. Now.” I didn’t both with the “if you please.”
Jervis resigned himself and obeyed.
We emerged from the house, walked down a lovely path through a formal garden to a large brick building with high casement windows.
At least, I assumed it had been a formal garden. The large hedges had suffered the same damage as those in the front of the house, with great gouges in the earth and scorch marks here and there. I opened my mouth to question Jervis but decided against it at the last moment. Best to establish myself with his lordship first.
Jervis opened the door, and bowed me through with a malicious glint in his eye.
I stepped within and was met with a wave of heat, humidity, and noise. The skirts on my mourning dress wilted as quickly as the curl in my hair would have done, had I not secured it in its tight braid.
I took in air filled with the scent of grease and the acrid odor of hot metal. The entire building was ablaze with light, flicking in the lamps and reflected by the copper and brass of the machinery. Gears and pulleys turned and twisted above my head, and heaven alone knew what function they performed.
The wooden floor stretched out before me, with men and tables scattered all around two huge machines. More workers emerged from trapdoors in the floor with tools and plans, scurrying this way and that, clearly intent on their responsibilities.
Whatever the machinery was, there were also men high above us on scaffolding, climbing all over them, some waving tools, all of them shouting at once in an effort to be heard. Jervis stood by the door, but I advanced, determined to make my presence known.
I literally had to walk into the path of a workman to get him to acknowledge me, and I shouted my demand to see Lord Ashington. The cheeky fellow pointed up and darted off as I lifted my chin. Undaunted, I started up the ladder toward the figure at the top.
The man was stuffed half inside the top of the machine, bent over at the waist and cursing at the top of his lungs, banging at something I could not see. I arranged my hat and skirts and prepared to confront my erstwhile employer. “Lord Ashington,” I started.
“Damn gear refuses to budge, Harkins,” boomed a voice that echoed out of the oddly shaped canister. “Hand me—” The rest was lost in the roar of a steam valve, but a hand emerged and waved back at me as if requesting a tool.
I picked up a mallet from the nearby tool box and slapped it into his hand. There was another muffled explosion of words as it became clear that was not the tool he required. A head of brown curls emerged and glanced back at me.
I stood properly, my parasol firmly planted before me, with both hands on the handle. “A word, Lord Ashington, if you would,” I shouted.
He stepped back and straightened. The queen is a small, stout woman, and I’d formed a mental image of her godson as roughly the same height and weight.
Lord Ashington was huge, towering over me, with a broad chest. He’d rolled up his sleeves, and the strength in his arms was obvious. His shirt was slightly opened, and his skin carried a sheen of sweat that was not unattractive. But his eyes . . .
His eyes blazed like brown suns, twinkling at some secret amusement that probably centered on my appearance in his domain. He ran his fingers back through those curls, and laughed. “Now, what’s brought the likes of you—”
A klaxon sounded, loud and pulsing.
Lord Ashington’s face changed in an instant. “Clark, are you on the damned boilers?”
There was noise below as men shouted and ran.
The scaffolding lurched beneath my feet. I staggered. Lord Ashington wrapped his arm around my waist to steady me and grabbed for one of the braces with his free hand. He clasped me tight in a most inappropriate manner.
“What?” was all I had time to say. The machine he had been working on moved, lurching to rise to its feet. It was an automaton, fully twenty feet tall, and it turned a copper face toward the klaxon.
There’d be no help from below, as men raced to what appeared to be a boiler on the verge of boiling dry. Once again the automaton lurched. Ashington released me, thrusting me behind him as he turned to confront his creation, wrench in hand. The platform shuddered beneath our feet. “We have to stop it,” he yelled to me. “Or else it will—”
The automaton raised its hand, and whirling blades emerged inches from Ashington’s face.
I gripped my parasol and leaped to the attack.
Silence fell over the ruins of the laboratory.
I stood amidst the destroyed automaton and slapped out the flames on the tatters of my skirt. Smoke rose around me carrying the smell of burnt cloth and my singed hair.
“Well, that’s done it,” Lord Ashington observed. His shirt hung in strips from his shoulders. He was bruised and bloodied but unbowed, hands on hips, looking about us. “Anyone hurt?”
The chorus of answers were negative as his workman scrambled around, putting out the rest of the fires. The scaffolding was a crumpled mess off to the side, having been destroyed by the flailing of the automaton during the battle.
With the reassurances of his men ringing about us, his smiling brown eyes focused on me. “Nice work with the parasol,” Ashington said.
I glanced over to where my parasol was jammed into the leg joint, mangled almost past recognition. “Thank you.” I tried to straighten my bodice and arrange my skirts. “May I enquire as to why you equipped the creature with those whirling blades?”
“It was supposed to be a gardening machine,” Ashington said. “To aid my groundskeepers.”
“Ah,” I replied. “And the beams of light shooting from its eyes?”
“I call them lasers. For trimming the shrubbery,” Ashington said absentmindedly, as he examined the wreckage. “But the reasoning machine could never distinguish between ‘gardening’ and ‘guarding.’ Every time an alarm sounds, the thing attacks.” Ashington ran his fingers through his curls. “No help for it, I’m afraid. We will have to start again.”
“That may take some time,” I observed. Strands of my hair fell into my face. I reached up to try to gather it back into its bun.
Lord Ashington watched my efforts. “Perhaps introductions would be in order? You already have the benefit of my name, Mrs. . . .”
“Haversham,” I said. “Miss Haversham. I am your new secretary.”
His eyebrows furrowed as he studied me. “I do not recall—”
“Her Majesty sent me,” I expla
ined, still struggling with my stubborn curls.
“Ah,” his expression became guarded. “Did she now?”
“She did, m’lord.” I gave up on my hair. “I am also here at the behest of Her Majesty’s Select Ser—”
His face was a thundercloud. “I see.” He stepped closer, glowering at me now with his full wrath. “I’ve told those idiots that my inventions are for peaceful purposes, not for the war efforts of the Empire.”
He stood close enough that I could feel his breath on my cheek, but I refused to budge. I simply gave the chaos about us a pointed glance, lifted my chin, and met his eyes. “How could they draw such a conclusion, my lord?”
Startled, he threw back his head, and let out a ringing laugh. I waited patiently as he got himself under control. “I suppose I must endure you,” he finally said.
“It would be for the best, m’lord,” I replied.
“Perhaps we should discuss the matter further. Over dinner?” His brown eyes danced.
“That would be terribly inappropriate, m’lord,” I replied. “But a cup of tea would be most welcome.”
“Tea, then.” He frowned as he watched some of the workmen lifting the torso of the automation. “Ask Jervis to see to it. I will be in shortly.”
With that, he strode off, shouting orders to his workers.
Lord Ashington seemed even taller in the confines of his office.
Jervis wheeled in the tea cart, and Ashington bid me pour. The tea was weak and tepid. The scones had clearly been from a prior week’s baking.
I took a few sips for politeness sake. Lord Ashington gulped his down and crunched through the scones, sending crumbs everywhere.
“So tell me,” he said, those brown eyes intent on mine. “What is your real mission?”