by Laura Powell
For weapons, the gentlemen had taken the rapiers that had been mounted over the fireplace in the smoking room. They were both frowning as they paced about, practising thrusts. Neither had the look of natural athletes. The poet had a slight build and bony wrists, whereas his adversary, the priest, had the lumpen physique of a man far too fond of second helpings at dinner-time. Captain Vyne – who was nearly as expert a swordsman as he was a seducer – surveyed them both with a highly superior air.
The ladies were arranged on the terrace. Iced lemonade and bowls of bon-bons were on hand for their refreshment. They were all threatening to swoon at any moment, though none of them would really be so foolish as to miss any of the excitement for the sake of a faint. Pattern found it disturbing that neither the Reverend’s sister, Honoria, nor Mr Ladlaw’s former sweetheart Miss Smith seemed particularly distressed.
‘I do hope Frederick puts on a decent show,’ said Miss Blunt. ‘He was never much of a sportsman at school.’
‘There is something very splendid,’ mused Miss Smith, ‘about the gleam of sunlight on a finely honed blade.’
‘Aren’t they dashing?’ cooed the Lane sisters, as the Dowager nodded and smiled.
Meanwhile, Miss Hawk – the subject of the duel – and her mama looked entirely unmoved. Miss Hawk was petting the little pug. Lady Hawk was placidly setting out cards for a game of patience.
After the Seconds had ensured the duellists were in position, Mr Grey held a white handkerchief aloft. After a heart-stopping pause, he dropped it to signify the fighting was to begin.
A delicate and deadly dance began. The two men circled each other warily, now and again making feints and thrusts. When all of a sudden the blades clashed in earnest – snicker-snack! – the ladies gasped, and even Pattern felt a not unpleasant thrill.
With renewed speed, the duellists darted and dashed hither and thither. Steel swished through the air, meeting with a quiver and a clang. Reverend Blunt scored the first hit, scraping the point of his blade down Mr Ladlaw’s arm. A thin line of red scribbled through the poet’s white sleeve.
The audience broke into applause. One of the footmen whooped; the ladies cooed admiringly. Pattern hoped that the drawing of the first blood would signify the end of the duel, but it seemed the fight had only just begun.
‘It is . . . it is not to the death, is it?’ she asked Alfred.
He did not take his eyes off the match. ‘Who cares? I’ve never seen such good sport. It’s a deal more exciting than cock-fighting, anyways.’
Nobody seemed particularly alarmed. As for Miss Hawk, she might as well have been observing a game of bridge.
Now it was Mr Ladlaw’s turn to score. His blade slashed through the Reverend’s waistcoat, causing him to stumble and curse. However, he recovered almost instantly. Despite their physical differences, the pair were remarkably evenly matched.
Pattern was no expert, but as time wore on she was sure that there were at least two occasions when either gentlemen could have scored a disabling, if not fatal, hit. Instead, they contrived to scratch flesh or tear cloth without inflicting any serious damage. Pattern should have been relieved by this. Nobody would wish for a man to throw his life away so recklessly. Yet she did not think the duellers were deliberately holding back. Indeed, they were straining every fibre of their beings in the effort to land a killer blow. Their eyes bulged with frustration; their teeth gnashed with fury.
Dart forward, dance back.
Twist, lunge, thrust, parry.
Whisk, whisk! Snicker-snack!
Both gentlemen were sweating and panting with effort. Torn breeches flapped, sleeves were slashed, buttons sliced off and stockings shredded. Each were spotted and speckled with blood from nicks and scrapes. How much longer could they continue before one or other of them dropped to the ground from sheer exhaustion?
The ladies continued to accompany the action with tremulous oohs and ahhs and smatterings of applause. Miss Hawk popped another sugared bon-bon into her mouth, and Lady Hawk quietly attended to her game of cards. Pattern watched her turn cards over and move them about for some moments before she noticed it was a very odd version of patience, if that was indeed the game. For Lady Hawk appeared to be arranging the cards according to colour, rather than suit. It struck her that the way the red and black cards were placed might be related to the progress of the duel.
She shifted her position so she had a better view of the spread. Pattern watched Lady Hawk delicately place an ace of diamonds face down on the table, and the very next moment Mr Ladlaw cried out as the Reverend Blunt’s blade scraped his ribs. A little while along, it was a knight of clubs that was turned over, and Mr Ladlaw who scored a hit. The longer Pattern watched, the more she was convinced that the red hearts and diamonds represented the poet, while the black clubs and spades represented the clergyman.
Nate had clearly come to a similar conclusion. He worked his way round to Pattern’s side and, under cover of the general applause, muttered: ‘Like watching Punch and Judy, ain’t it? No prizes for guessing who’s the puppet-master.’
‘Or mistress, rather,’ Pattern said grimly. She picked up a jug of lemonade that William, its original server, had left on the steps. ‘I think I can put a stop to it, but I need some way of stumbling that does not look contrived.’
Nate held out a piece of bon-bon to Lady Hawk’s pug, which was snuffling for treats along the terrace. ‘Leave it to me.’
Pattern carried the jug to where the ladies were seated, on the pretence of refreshing the Dowager’s glass. When she drew near to where Lady Hawk was sitting, Nate threw a piece of the sweetmeat towards Pattern’s feet. The greedy pug immediately scrambled after the treat, and under her skirts. Pattern let out a little shriek.
She had meant to ‘accidentally’ slop lemonade on to Lady Hawk’s card game, but her intervention was more dramatic than she intended. The pug was so startled by Pattern’s yelp that it leaped into Lady Hawk’s lap and from there to the table. As the creature snuffled and scrabbled, the playing cards flew every which way about. The lady exclaimed angrily in a foreign tongue.
‘I am s-so s-sorry, milady!’ Pattern was a picture of mortification. ‘The dog – it came from nowhere – forgive me—’
Miss Jenks was already springing into action, and scolded Pattern soundly. Lady Hawk brushed dog slobber from her skirts, a look of intense displeasure on her face – but not suspicion, Pattern was relieved to see. She was even more relieved that the two duellists had abruptly ceased their fight and were sitting on the lawn, slumped over their blades, and panting.
‘I think,’ drawled Captain Vyne, ‘that we had best declare it a draw.’
CHAPTER TEN
Avoid as much as possible being alone with the opposite sex.
S. & S. Adams, The Complete Servant
That evening before supper, Alfred saw Miss Hawk slip a note into Captain Vyne’s hand. He reported this to William, who shared it with Jane, who passed on the news to her fellow housemaids. While the others girls were exceedingly interested and impressed by this development, it made Pattern very anxious indeed. If Miss Hawk was arranging an assignation with the Captain, it was sure to end badly for him, particularly after what she’d witnessed with Lord Charnly.
Pattern did not know what was coming, or what she could do about it, but the strange prickling energy she had sensed last night was once more in the air. Earlier in the day, Mrs Palfrey had discovered a rainbow-coloured parrot in the pantry, and a leopard napping in the library had given the Dowager a start, yet nobody seemed in the least bit concerned by the wild beasts and birds making themselves at home in the house. Nor had any of the servants enquired as to the whereabouts of Lord Charnly and his valet, Stokes. Whatever magic was at work, its power was only increasing.
When, after supper, the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, the Captain took the first chance to slip away. Pattern followed. He was heading to a small study at the end of the hall. It was one of those rooms t
hat put Pattern in mind of Nate’s observation that the house was dressed like a stage set, for, in contrast to the austere Classical style of most of the villa, this cosy book-lined den would not look out of place in a country vicarage. Miss Hawk’s sewing basket rested on one of the leather armchairs.
Pattern hesitated at the door. She could think of no good reason for being there, but the Captain seemed pleased to see her. ‘Aha. Fetch me a light, would you? It’s damnably dark.’
The only illumination came from the moon shining through the window. Pattern would have thought the darkness contributed to the air of mystery that surrounds romantic assignations. However, when she hastened back with a candle, she saw what the Captain had in mind. There was a full-length mirror along one of the walls, in which the gentleman wished to inspect his reflection.
‘That’s right. Bring the light here.’ He smoothed down his hair, turning this way and that to see his handsome profile at its best advantage. It was little wonder he had such a bewitching effect upon the ladies. ‘Higher, if you please.’ He was peering at the glass, trying to make out a tiny imperfection above his eyebrow. ‘Damn midges . . .’
As the candlelight brightened the glass, the mirror began to shimmer. It sparkled and swirled, a pool of quicksilver. Alarmed, Pattern took a step back. As she did so, the glass swung forward off the wall. The mirror was, in fact, a hinged door.
‘Good Lord,’ said the Captain, squinting at the shadowy interior it had revealed. ‘A hidden passageway! How quaint.’
‘It is probably not safe, sir. In these old houses, such structures are often unstable.’
‘Nonsense.’ He poked his head into the darkness. A ripple of laughter could be heard from within. ‘By Jove, that’s Miss Hawk! Sounds like she’s just around the corner.’
‘Please, sir, I really don’t see how she can be. Sir, I beg you to reconsider. I fear – I fear a trap of some kind. I do not think you are aware of the danger—’
‘Fear? Danger? Ha! An officer of the Royal Dragoons is not afraid of a bit of dust and spiders! Give me your candle. Quickly, now . . . Don’t look so downcast, little mouse. Faint hearts never win fair ladies, y’know!’
With a wink and a smirk, which were no doubt intended to be dashing, he stepped jauntily into the narrow opening, pulling the mirror door shut behind him. Pattern sprang after him, only just in time to prevent it closing. She had a strong feeling that once it did, it would not open again. She propped it open with A Naturalist’s Guide to Cull pulled from the bookshelves and hurried over to Miss Hawk’s sewing basket—
‘What’s going on?’
Pattern started, but it was only Nate; he had clearly followed after her. In different circumstances, she might have been annoyed at being shadowed, but she was relieved to see him. She gave him the story as quickly as possible.
‘I am going after the Captain, but I will leave the end of this piece of embroidery silk tied to the leg of the sofa, and take the rest of the skein with me. If I tug on the thread, then you are to fetch help – and if you tug on it, I will come back straight away.’
‘You can’t go there alone! It’s sure to be a trap of some kind. Who knows what manner of monster could be lurking in there?’
‘Nonetheless I must go,’ she said firmly as she lit a fresh candle. Nate was not employed by the Silver Service; he should not endanger himself for Captain Vyne’s sake. ‘I cannot explain why, but you have to trust me when I say I have . . . well, I have a special obligation to stop Lady Hawk’s schemes.’
Nate looked ready to protest further, but there was no time for debate. ‘Please, I beg you to stay here and watch the thread, and ensure the door stays open for our return.’
He was frowning. ‘And if one of the other servants or a guest should find me here?’
‘You’ll think of something – I’m sure of it. See you soon,’ she said, with more confidence than she felt, as she slipped through the mirrored door.
It was very dark inside, in spite of the candle Pattern carried and the chink of light from the gap in the door. The walls and floor of the passage were made of rough-hewn stone. But only a little way ahead, the passage made a sharp left turn, and the darkness suddenly burst into light and life.
Pattern was surrounded by endless images of herself, above, below and to either side of her. She was in a corridor made entirely of mirrors. She spun round, and the reflected Patterns spun round too; identical startled frowns on their identical faces.
Even though the space was not particularly narrow, she immediately felt breathless, cramped. There was no escape from herself: even the ground was a mirror, in which countless more Patterns were multiplied into space. It seemed she had moved beyond the physical confines of the villa into some other dimension. The bounce of candlelight between the mirrors dazzled her eyes, increasing her disorientation. She clutched at her little coil of silk thread and took a deep, steadying breath. After walking only a short way, she reached a crossroads.
‘Captain Vyne?’ she called out, and her voice echoed hollowly. She thought she heard an answering shout. It seemed to come from her left, and so she turned that way. As she rounded the corner, the corridor split into four, sending multiple reflections cascading in yet more directions. It was like being in the centre of a kaleidoscope.
‘C-Captain?’
‘Here!’
The sound came, very faintly, from the second of the four branching corridors. At least she thought so; the echoes made it hard to be sure. And the next turning was even more disorientating, for in this corridor the wall of glass was subtly curved so that the mirrors’ reflections were distorted further.
Pattern had heard of such tricks at fairgrounds, where she could see that it might be amusing to view oneself monstrously stretched or squeezed. Here, it was nightmarish. She squeezed her eyes shut and shuffled forward, making her way by touch alone, running her fingertips along the cool, smooth glass.
‘Captain Vyne . . . are you there?’
Another shout, which sounded like a muffled curse, echoed eerily from somewhere ahead. Pattern approached another crossroads.
As she continued unspooling the thread behind her, she regretted not keeping better track of her progress. She seemed to remember there was a trick to navigating mazes – weren’t you supposed to keep your hand on the wall at all times? Or always turn to the left? Something like that . . .
Another faint shout, or curse, or cry, came from somewhere ahead.
‘Stay where you are! I’m coming to find you!’
Then she felt the thread twitch.
Someone was pulling at it. Nate, she thought, and her heart clenched. Was he in trouble? Had they been found out by Lady Hawk? Or was it a trap, to lure her back out of the maze before she could help the Captain?
The thread of silk was tugged again, with new urgency. The moment of decision was agonizing. But she could not risk Nate being in trouble, especially after he had saved her from the centaur. Then there was the danger of the thread breaking, in which case both she and the Captain would be trapped.
‘I’m sorry!’ she shouted helplessly into the kaleidoscope of glass. ‘I have to go. But I’ll come back . . .’
She retraced her brief journey through the maze, feeling more breathless and dizzy with every step. Her foreboding was justified, for when she finally tumbled out of the door, she found Nate with Miss Hawk’s hands wrapped round his throat.
‘You should not be in this room,’ Miss Hawk told him, and it was in the same mild, quiet tones in which she was wont to remark on the weather. Her unblinking blue eyes were fixed on Nate’s face. As Pattern watched, aghast, she lifted him up with her tiny hands, so he dangled helplessly in her grip, legs thrashing, a good three feet above the floor.
‘Let him go!’ Pattern cried.
Miss Hawk turned and regarded her calmly. ‘You should not be here either. Presently, I will punish you too.’
Still holding Nate round the neck, she glided to the mirror door and kicked it
shut. Pattern was unable to stop her: the young woman’s strength was superhuman. As Pattern had feared, once the door was closed, it instantly sealed itself against the wall. There was no way back into the maze – and no way out for Captain Vyne.
Right now, however, Pattern had other problems with which to contend. Miss Hawk had begun to squeeze Nate’s neck. Flailing wildly, he tried to scratch at her face as he choked and gasped. Pattern tugged and kicked, but she might as well have been attacking a figure made of marble. There was not so much as a scratch on Miss Hawk’s smooth flesh. The only damage Pattern could inflict was to her clothes as, with a ripping sound, three of the tiny pearl buttons on the back of her gown popped off.
Pattern stopped her attack. She was transfixed at the sight the gaping dress had exposed: a small metal enclosure between Miss Hawk’s shoulder blades. It was similar in size as well as appearance to the winding hole on a clock. Whether or not the girl was Lady Hawk’s real daughter, Pattern had always supposed her to be under some kind of spell. A horrible idea struck her – what if Miss Hawk was not flesh and blood at all? What if she really was the living doll she so closely resembled?
But mechanical things could be broken. As Nate’s face grew purple, and his splutters yet more desperate, Pattern rushed to fetch the brass key belonging to the clock on the mantelpiece and jammed it into the metal hole in Miss Hawk’s back. She turned it counterclockwise as forcefully as she could. A creaking sound came from somewhere deep within Miss Hawk, like the squeaking of rusty gears. She released Nate so abruptly, he fell to the floor in a heap. Afterwards, she kept to her place, swaying slightly and blinking rapidly, turning her face this way and that.
‘Wh-wh-what is she?’ Nate asked hoarsely, once he had recovered sufficiently to speak. He sounded like his throat was red-raw and bruised.