“Let me see the other card,” said Miss Temple. “You have another in your pocket.”
Svenson blanched. “I—I do not think, the time—”
“I do insist.” She was determined to learn more about Roger’s inner life—who he had seen, the bargains with Crabbé, his true feelings for her. Svenson was blathering excuses—did he want some kind of exchange?
“I cannot allow—a lady—please—”
Miss Temple handed him the first card. “The country house belongs to Roger’s uncle, Lord Tarr.”
“Lord Tarr is his uncle?”
“Of course Lord Tarr is his uncle.”
Svenson did not speak. Miss Temple pointedly raised her eyebrows, waiting.
“But Lord Tarr has been murdered,” said Svenson.
Miss Temple gasped.
“Francis Xonck spoke of this Bascombe’s inheritance,” said Svenson, “that he would soon be important and powerful—my thought—when Crabbé says ‘decision’—”
“I’m afraid that is quite impossible,” snapped Miss Temple.
But even as she spoke, her mind raced. Roger had not been his uncle’s heir. While Lord Tarr (a gouty difficult man) had no sons, he did have daughters with male children of their own—it had been quite clearly and bitterly explained to her by Roger’s mother. Moreover, as if to confirm Roger’s peripheral status, on their sole visit to Tarr Manor, its ever-ailing Lord proved disinclined to see Roger, much less make the acquaintance of Roger’s provincial fiancée. And now Lord Tarr had been murdered, and Roger somehow acclaimed as his heir to lands and title? She could not trust it for a minute—but what other inheritance could Roger have? She did not think Roger Bascombe a murderer—all the more since having herself recently met several of the species—but she knew he was weak and tractable, despite his broad shoulders and his poise, and she suddenly felt cold…the people he had fallen in with, the demonstration he had willingly witnessed in the operating theatre…within her vow to ruin him, her utter and complete disdain for all things Bascombe, it was with a tinge of sorrow that Miss Temple felt oddly certain that he was lost. Just as she had wondered, in the operating theatre at Harschmort, if Roger had truly understood with whom or what he had become entangled—and in that wondering felt a pang at being unable to protect him from his own blindness when it came to the powerful and rich—so Miss Temple felt suddenly sure that, one way or another and without it being his intention, these events would be his doom.
She looked up at Svenson. “Give me the other card. Either I am your ally or I am not.”
“You have not even told me your name.”
“Haven’t I?”
“No, you have not,” said the Doctor.
Miss Temple pursed her lips, then smiled at him graciously and offered her hand, along with her standard explanation.
“I am Miss Temple, Celestial Temple. My father enjoyed astronomy—I am fortunate not to be named for one of Jupiter’s moons.” She hesitated, then exhaled. “Though if we are to be true allies, then—yes—you must call me Celeste. Of course you must—though I am quite unable to call you, what is it—Abelard? You are older, foreign, and it would in any case be ridiculous.” She smiled. “There. I am so very pleased to have made your acquaintance. I am sure I have never before met an officer of the Macklenburg Navy, nor a captain-surgeon of any kind.”
Doctor Svenson took her hand awkwardly. He bent over to kiss it. She pulled it away, not unkindly.
“You needn’t do that. It is not Germany.”
“Of course…as you say.” Miss Temple saw with some small satisfaction that Doctor Svenson was blushing.
She smiled at him, her gaze pointedly drifting to the pocket that held the second card. He noted this and hesitated, quite awkwardly. She did not see the difficulty—she had already seen the other—she would not be disoriented a second time.
“Perhaps you would prefer to view it in a more private room—”
“I would not.”
Svenson sighed and fished out the card. He handed it to her with an evident wave of trepidation. “The man—it is not Bascombe—is my Prince—also a rake. It is the St. Royale Hotel. Perhaps you will know the woman—I know her as Mrs. Marchmoor…or the…ah…spectators. In this glass card—the, ah, vantage of experience—lies with the lady.” He stood and turned away from her, making a fuss of finding and lighting another cigarette, refusing to meet her eye. She glanced at the desk clerks, who were still watching with interest, despite being unable to hear the intense conversation, then to Svenson, who she saw had discreetly stepped away and turned to study the leaves of a large potted plant. Her curiosity was thoroughly piqued. She looked into the card.
When she lowered the card some minutes later, Miss Temple’s face was flushed and her breathing rapid. She looked nervously around her, met the idly curious eye of the desk clerk and immediately turned away. She was relieved and somewhat touched to see that Doctor Svenson still had his back to her—for he clearly knew what she had been experiencing, if only by virtue of another woman’s body. She could not believe what had just happened—what had not happened, despite the intimacy, the utterly persuasive intimacy of the equally disquieting and delicious sensations. She had just—she could not believe—in public, for the first time, without warning!—and felt ashamed that she had so insisted, that she had not taken the Doctor’s strong hint to withdraw—and so had been—a man she did not know, nor had feelings for—though she had sensed the lady’s feelings for him, or for the experience—could those be separated? She shifted in her seat and straightened her dress, feeling to her dismay an undeniable, insistent itching tickle between her legs. If her aunt had at that moment asked again about her virtue, how should she answer? Miss Temple looked down at the glass rectangle in her hands, and marveled at the vast and thoroughly disquieting possibilities residing in such a creation.
She cleared her throat. Doctor Svenson turned at once, his gaze flickering across her, refusing for a moment to meet her eyes. He stepped closer to the settee. She handed him the glass card and smiled up at him quite shyly.
“My goodness…”
He returned it to his pocket, touchingly mortified. “I am desperately sorry—I’m afraid I did not make clear—”
“Do not trouble yourself—please, it is I who should apologize—though in truth I should prefer not to speak of it further.”
“Of course—forgive me—it is vulgar of me to go on so.”
She did not answer—for she could not answer without prolonging what she herself had just expressed a desire to curtail. There followed a pause. The Doctor looked at her with an uncomfortable expression. He had no idea what to say next. Miss Temple sighed.
“The lady, whose—as you say, whose vantage is conveyed—do you know her?”
“No, no—but did you…perhaps…recognize anyone?”
“I could not be sure—they were all masked, but I think the lady—”
“Mrs. Marchmoor.”
“Yes. I believe I have seen her before. I do not know her name, nor even her face, for I have only seen her so masked.”
She saw Doctor Svenson’s eyes widen. “At the engagement party?” He paused. “At—at Lord Vandaariff’s!”
Miss Temple did not answer at once, for she was thinking. “Indeed, at…ah—what is the name of his house?”
“Harschmort.”
“That’s right—it was once some kind of ruin?”
“So I am told,” said Svenson, “a coastal fortification—Norman, perhaps—and then after that, with some expansion—”
Miss Temple recalled the plain, thick, forbidding walls and risked a guess. “A prison?”
“Exactly so—and then Lord Vandaariff’s own home, purchased from the Crown and completely re-made at some great expense.”
“And the night before last—”
“The engagement party, for the Prince and Miss Vandaariff! But—but—you were there?”
“I confess…I was.”
He was loo
king at her with intense curiosity—and she knew that she herself was keenly hungry for more information, particularly after the revelations about Roger and his uncle—and even now, the prospect of another person’s narrative of the masked ball was desperately appealing. But Miss Temple also saw the extreme fatigue in the face and frame of her newfound ally, and—especially as he persisted in glancing suspiciously out of the window to the street—thought it by far the wiser course to procure for him a place to rest and recover, so that once they had agreed on a course of action, he would be capable of following it. Also, she had to admit, she wanted more time to go through the newspapers—now she had a better sense of what to look for—so that, once they did fully hash through each other’s stories, she could present herself as less a foolish girl. She felt that her own experiences ought not to be undermined by the absence of a handful of place names and perfectly obvious—once one thought of them—hypotheses. She stood up. In an instant, his automatic politeness somehow dog-like, Svenson was on his feet.
“Come with me,” she said, rapidly collecting her papers and books. “I have been shamefully negligent.” She marched across toward the hotel desk, her arms full, looking back at Doctor Svenson, who followed a step behind her, vague protests hovering about his mouth. “Or are you hungry?” she asked.
“No, no,” he sputtered, “I—moments ago—in the street—coffee—”
“Excellent. Mr. Spanning?” This was to the sleek man behind the desk, who at once gave Miss Temple his every attention. “This is Doctor Svenson. He will need a room—he has no servants—a sleeping room and a sitting room should suffice. He will want food—some sort of broth, I expect—he is not completely well. And someone to clean his coat and boots. Thank you so much. Charge my account.” She turned to face Svenson and spoke over his incoherent protest. “Do not be a fool, Doctor. You need help—there is an end to it. I am sure you will help me in your turn. Ah, Mr. Spanning, thank you so much. Doctor Svenson has no baggage—he will take the key himself.”
Mr. Spanning held out the key to Svenson, who took it without a word. Miss Temple heaved her papers onto the counter, quickly signed the chit the clerk had placed in front of her, and then re-gathered her load. With a last crisp smile at Spanning—openly daring the man to find anything in the transaction to assail propriety or sully her reputation in the slightest—she led the way up the main curving flight of stairs, a small industrious figure, with the lanky Doctor bobbing uncertainly in her wake. They reached the second floor and Miss Temple turned to the right, down a wide, red-carpeted corridor.
“Miss Temple!” whispered Svenson. “Please, this is too much—I cannot accept such charity—we have much to discuss—I am content to find a less expensive room in an unobtrusive lodging house—”
“That would be most inconvenient,” answered Miss Temple. “I am certainly not inclined to seek you out in such a place, nor—if your furtive looks are anything to judge—ought you to be wandering the streets until we fully understand our danger, and you have had some sleep. Really, Doctor, it is quite sensible.”
Miss Temple was proud of herself. After so many experiences that seemed almost designed to demonstrate the profound degree of Miss Temple’s ignorance and incapacity, the exercise of such decisive action was highly satisfying. She was also—though she had only known him for a matter of minutes—pleased with herself for making the choice to accept Doctor Svenson, and to extend what aid she could. It was as if the more she was able to do, the farther she removed herself from the painful isolation of her time at Harschmort.
“Ah,” she said, “number 27.” She stopped to the side of the door, allowing Svenson to open it. He did so and peered inside, then indicated that she should enter before him. She shook her head. “No, Doctor. You must sleep. I will return to my own rooms, and when you have restored yourself, alert Mr. Spanning and he will send word, and the two of us can properly confer. I assure you I am looking toward that time with great impatience, but until you are fully rested—”
She was interrupted by the sound of a door opening farther down the corridor. Out of habit she glanced toward the sound and then returned her gaze to Svenson…and then—her eyes widening in surprise, the words dying on her lips—turned back to the guest who had just stepped into the hallway from his room. The man stood watching her, his eyes shifting quickly between her and Svenson. Miss Temple saw the Doctor’s own expression was one of shock, even as she felt him groping in the pocket of his greatcoat. The man in the corridor walked slowly toward them, his footsteps absorbed by the thick carpet. He was tall, his hair black, his deep red coat reaching nearly down to the floor. He wore the same round dark glasses she had seen on the train. His movements were gracefully muscular, like a cat’s, exuding ease and menace equally. She knew she should be reaching in her bag for the revolver, but instead calmly placed her hand over the Doctor’s, stilling his movement. The man in red stopped perhaps a yard or two away. He looked at her—she could not see his eyes—then looked at the Doctor, and then at the open door between them.
He whispered, conspiratorially. “No blood. No princes. Shall we send for tea?”
The man in red shut the door behind him, his masked, depthless eyes fixed on Miss Temple and the Doctor as they stood in the small sitting room. Each had managed to secure a firm grip on their respective weapons. For a long moment, all three glanced back and forth between each other in silence. Finally, Miss Temple spoke to Doctor Svenson.
“I take it you know this man?”
“We have not spoken…perhaps it is better to say that we overlapped. His name—correct me if I am wrong, Sir—is Chang.”
The man in red nodded in acknowledgment. “I do not know your name, though the lady…it’s a pleasure to formally meet the famous Isobel Hastings.”
Miss Temple did not answer. Beside her, she could feel Svenson sputtering. He pulled away from her, his eyes goggling.
“Isobel Hastings? But you—you were with Bascombe!”
“I was,” said Miss Temple.
“But…how did they not know you? I am sure he is looking for you as well!”
“She looks very different in the…daylight.” Chang chuckled.
Svenson stared at her, taking in the bruises, the red line traced by the bullet.
“I’m a fool….” he whispered. “But…how—I beg your pardon—”
“He was on the train,” she said to Svenson, her gaze fixed on Chang. “On my return from Harschmort. We did not speak.”
“Did we not?” asked Chang. He looked to Svenson. “Did we not speak? You and I? I think we did. A man like me. A woman covered in blood—did she tell you that? A man brazening his way into and then away from a pack of enemies with a pistol. I think there was, in each instance…recognition.”
No one spoke for a moment. Miss Temple took a seat on the small sofa. She looked up at the Doctor and indicated the armchair. He wavered, but then sat in it. They both looked at Chang, who drifted to the remaining chair, across from them both. It was only then that Miss Temple realized that something bright was tucked within his hand—his razor. From the way he moved, she had no doubt that he was far more dangerous with the razor than the two of them with their pistols put together—and if that was the case, then something entirely else was called for. She cleared her throat and very deliberately brought her hand out of her green clutch bag. She then took the bag from her lap and placed it to the side on the sofa. A moment later, Chang abruptly shoved the razor into his pocket. After another few seconds, Svenson removed his hand from his coat pocket.
“Were you in earnest about the tea?” Miss Temple asked. “I should like some very much. It is always best when discussing serious matters to do so around a teapot. Doctor—you are nearest—if you would be so kind as to ring the bell.”
They did not speak in the minutes it took for the tea to be ordered and then arrive, nor again in the time spent pouring, aside from monosyllabic inquiries about lemon, milk, or sugar. Miss Temple took a sip from h
er cup, one hand on the saucer beneath—it was excellent—and so fortified decided that someone had better take charge—for the Doctor seemed in danger of falling asleep and the other man—Chang—was positively wolfish.
“Mr. Chang, you are clearly reticent—I am sure I do not misspeak when I say we all have good reason to be suspicious—and yet you are here. I will tell you that Doctor Svenson and I have been acquainted not above this hour, and that through a chance meeting in the lobby of this hotel, exactly as we have met you in its hallway. I can see that you are a dangerous man—I neither compliment nor criticize, it is merely plain enough—and so understand that if the three of us do come to some profound disagreement, there may be a violent outcome which will leave at least one faction, well, probably dead. Would you agree?”
Chang nodded, a smile playing about his lips.
“Excellent. Given this, I see no reason not to be candid—if any tales are told, it will not disturb the dead, and if we are to join forces, then we will be stronger for sharing our knowledge. Yes?”
Chang nodded again, and sipped his tea.
“You are very agreeable. I propose then—since I have already spoken to Doctor Svenson—this is Captain-Surgeon Abelard Svenson of the Macklenburg Navy”—here the men exchanged an archly formal nod—“I will briefly narrate my part in this affair. As the Doctor and I had not reached this level of frankness, I hope it will be of some interest to him as well. The Doctor has been awake all night, apparently the object of violent pursuit, and has lost his Prince—as you so astutely noted in the hall.” She smiled. “If Doctor Svenson is able to continue…”
“By all means,” Svenson muttered. “The tea has revived me powerfully.”
Glass Books of the Dream Eaters Page 26