by Kage Baker
So Dora got up and went to the door, straightening her blouse and tucking escaped curls back into her combs in some haste. She opened the door a hand’s breath and peered out.
In the dim light of the oil lamp on the hall table stood a fretful-looking man. This was in itself peculiar, as he should not have been able to make his way to this private floor in a rooming house that catered primarily to ladies. He seemed aware of this, as he cast anxious glances up and down the hall while he stood there.
He was tall and slender and well-dressed, but bore an expression of profound distress. He was throttling his hat in his hands, and when Dora opened the door and looked out full into his face, he actually cried out and promptly dropped it on the floor. Bending at once to retrieve it, he then ran his face into the hooped curve of Dora’s skirt; recoiled again with a cry, and fell over on the hall floor like a stunned insect.
Dora looked down at him doubtfully, and then back into the parlor.
“There is a man here having a seizure, I think,” she said.
Miss Rendlesham came up beside her, opening the door wide. Behind them, the Aetheric Transmitter had been whisked away to the sideboard and covered with a shawl; the most outre and eye-catching object in the room was now the temple of cards and dominoes covering the table. The other Ladies stood about it in attitudes of slightly flushed surprise.
The man on the floor managed to regain his knees; then, with an almost audible creak, his feet. His mashed hat resumed its revolving in his hands like a sad dead little animal.
“Forgive my clumsiness, I pray you,” he said breathlessly, “and the lateness of the hour. I am Neville Ponsonby, late of Tredway Pickett’s household, and I have information of extreme importance to impart to Mrs. Corvey and her daughter, Miss Beatrice Corvey. Are they at home?”
“They are not,” said Miss Rendlesham, in a voice that usually thrilled her more subservient patrons. “They are at your employer’s house, as a matter of fact. I suggest you seek information there. And how did you get up here to our rooms, may I inquire?”
Mr. Ponsonby had flinched at Miss Rendlesham’s stern address, but paled alarmingly as she finished. His hands clenched together, quite finishing off his hat.
“They are at Pickett’s? Then please let me come within at once, I beg!” he exclaimed. “My information is become a matter of life and death!”
In the bank of herbs on the cliff top, matters had grown more serious; though not, to Lady Beatrice’s mild annoyance, more silent. Although Pickett was advancing his cause with increasing determination, he continued to pontificate between frenzied kisses—indeed, it was more as though he were kissing between the points of his lecture. Lady Beatrice did not find his peculiar politics to be an enhancement to their congress, either philosophical or carnal, and in fact was feeling a certain chagrin that not even the loss of her buttons, bloomers or presumed virtue was entirely capable of shutting him up.
In fact, his attention was increasingly fixed on the sea below them. At length, she seized his ears in either hand and yanked his head round to face her, demanding boldly, “Kiss me, dear Mr. Pickett!” Which he did, but—as Lady Beatrice did not close her eyes during this exercise—she could not help but notice that Pickett’s own gaze slid inexorably to the side as he continued his watch upon the moonlit sea.
When the kiss ended, she gave up and turned her own eyes to the view below. Thus, though their bodies contested in that most earth-bound of activities on the bed of thyme (or miner’s lettuce), the lovers’ gazes were not on each others’ enraptured faces, but fixed in unity and expectation upon the bosom of the sea.
Lady Beatrice wondered coldly what Pickett was waiting for.
The fox terrier’s hindquarters quivered uncertainly. Herbertina felt as if her own were doing the same. Slowly, carefully, she eased a hand into her trouser pocket and fetched out the last bit of biscuit from her dinner. Thank goodness for the Devere sisters! she thought fervently, and offered it to the interested dog.
Cold nose, warm tongue—a snuffle and the biscuit was gone, but the dog stayed quiet and was now giving Herbertina the narrow grin so typical of its breed. It was a white dog, but with a charming black domino mask from which its tongue lolled in companionable silence.
Herbertina essayed a ruffle of its forward-tilted ears and the dog huffed a little in pleasure. Now mutually reassured, Herbertina and the terrier went on: the former crawling forward while the latter trailed with nose to the ground as if it had known the plan from the beginning.
Herbertina was thus feeling some cautious satisfaction at her progress when a sudden shout shattered both the night and her composure.
“Here, ye little bitch! What d’ye think yer doing out there?”
Herbertina froze in panic. So did the terrier—then leaped over Herbertina and trotted with an embarrassed air to the back door of the cottage. A bulky shadow stood there, swinging some rod-like implement impatiently. As the dog retreated, brief tail upheld in true terrier fashion, two things occurred to Herbertina: even if she herself had been sighted, her gender would not have been apparent; and the terrier was most obviously a literal bitch. She was still unseen.
Nonetheless, Herbertina decided that her foray was now decisively concluded: she had important information, had narrowly avoided detection, and it was clearly time to quit the field. Accordingly, she began to inch backwards, not daring to rise or try to turn. The open cottage door remained in her full view, thus affording her a clear silhouette of the bulky shouter as he soundly kicked the fox terrier.
The dog yelped and bolted back into the meadow. Her owner swore and started after her, straight down the long aisle of shadow along which Herbertina was desperately trying to effect her escape. Within but a moment or so, it was clear that Herbertina would not avoid being seen this time; if, indeed, the fellow (still shouting imprecations at the dog) did not tread on her outright.
As the man bore down upon her, Herbertina rolled to one side and seized his passing ankle. Her weight brought him crashing to his knees; but he rolled at once, kicking out and hauling a small pistol from his breeches pocket; clearly, an experienced brawler.
Herbertina, likewise no novice, continued her own roll and came up on her feet: just in time to see the pistol extended as the fellow on the ground leaned up on one arm. He grinned maliciously, and discharged the pistol directly at Herbertina’s breast.
The ball struck her like a—well, like a ball, like a cricket ball, to be precise; or one of the champagne corks more usually wielded by Nell Gwynne’s rowdier patrons. It also stung like the dickens and knocked her flat on her arse. What it did not do, however, was split her breastbone, penetrate her heart, or impart any other deadly force to her person.
Herbertina was as startled as her assailant, but quicker of thought. She scrambled to her feet and leaped at him. Darting round to his side, she kicked him smartly just above his left ear, sending him at full-length on the ground with the interesting sound of a melon being flung at a garden wall. He lay utterly still.
Not pausing, Herbertina caught up the dropped rod (prosaically, it proved to be a broom) and the pistol, and strode off herself with assurance, trusting to the brevity of the encounter to lend her retreating figure a similarity to her downed opponent’s. And indeed, as she sped toward the trees, a voice behind her shouted—with annoyance, but no real alarm—for “Dick” to leave off potting at the damned rabbits and get his arse back to work. Herbertina waved the broom in a universal gesture of disdainful acknowledgment, and made for cover.
By this time her little copse of hawthorn trees was also spreading a nice deep shadow to the west, and she was confident she was out of sight before the direction of her retreat was clear from the cottages. No alarms disturbed the bustle of activity behind her, but it was only a matter of time before the dog-kicking Dick either awoke or was found. Herbertina wasted no further time in observation, but discarded the broom, and ducked into the shelter of the hawthorns.
She took a
moment to examine her shirtfront, in some awe. While there was a decided ache there, she felt in no way damaged. However, there was a neat hole through her waistcoat. It had evidently lodged itself against the strange new stays in her corset: and not gone a fraction more into her chest.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Felmouth!” she whispered. She wheeled the dandy horse out of the bushes and prepared to speed away.
The smooth path along the cliff tops ran downhill from this vantage point, and she anticipated a swift ride down. Just before she mounted, though, she heard a soft whine, and the masked fox terrier came hesitantly out from under a bush. Herbertina paused, indecisive—then knelt and offered her hand. The bitch came forward and nosed her fingers, then sat down and grinned up at her. Herbertina patted her and rose, looking back along the cliffs one last time.
No pursuit. The crowd of men was quieter now, massing together, and it appeared a bonfire was being lit. Along the moon’s road shining on the waves, a black serpentine wake was moving east.
“Well, if you can keep up, you can come with me, little lady,” whispered Herbertina. She vaulted on to the dandy horse, pushing off and pumping down hard on the pedals, and coasted silently away down the path. The little fox terrier raced happily after her.
Pickett lay still now, head resting on Lady Beatrice’s bosom. Lady Beatrice was rehearsing a rather complicated cable pattern in her head, while running her fingers through Pickett’s hair in the hopes he would thus be soothed into staying silent just a little longer. Both of them still gazed out to sea where the moon struck a widening path across the waves.
Suddenly, a dark wake was visible speeding straight along that path, at right angles to the glowing lines of waves incoming. On the headland to the North which seemed to be its origin, a bonfire blazed up in the night.
Pickett lurched upright on his elbows, face alight with renewed excitement. Lady Beatrice caught her breath, startled, as other, more intimate indications were made immediately obvious to her—Pickett, fortunately, took her indrawn breath for a rekindling of passion equal to his own and set to above her with renewed vigor.
He tore his gaze from the sea long enough for a deep kiss.
“Dearest Beatrice,” he panted exultantly, “do you see it? Is it not fine? Is it not inspiring?”
It was certainly inspiring him. Though Lady Beatrice took no personal pleasure from their acrobatics, she was still a refined judge of both quality and quantity—and the sight of the mysterious vessel on the ocean below was clearly a spur to Mr. Pickett’s efforts. She fixed her eyes on his, widening them so the moon seemed to light her grey gaze to silver, and simply clung to his shoulders in adoring silence. He took this for the sign of swooning ecstasy he expected, and stared out in triumph once more at the sea.
To Lady Beatrice’s astonishment, Pickett was suddenly so enthused at what he saw that he sat up, withdrawing from their congress with unexpected speed. He pointed and cried out in triumph.
The second mast, the cannon, had risen into the air: with a low thundering concussion, it jetted a spray that gleamed like pearls and opals in the moonlight.
Mr. Pickett followed suit.
“You are most certainly not coming into our rooms,” said Miss Rendlesham severely. Her gaze had apparently paralyzed their importunate visitor; without releasing him from the pinpoint glare, she waved one hand at Dora and ordered, “Fetch our shawls, and tell the others we will be on the smoking deck.”
Dora slipped in and out the doorway with alacrity, returning wrapped in her shawl and with another to slip round Miss Rendlesham’s shoulders. Miss Rendlesham took Dora’s arm and pointed to the outside door.
“Outside, at once,” she commanded. Mr. Ponsonby blanched and went meekly before them, wringing his hands.
Out on the deck, Miss Rendlesham seated herself on a wrought-iron bench, Dora perching solemnly beside her, and looked at Mr. Ponsonby with a frigid contempt.
“Explain yourself, sir,” she said. “Why are you here at this hour? Are you about some mischief to my cousin Miss Corvey?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, I am here to be of service to you!” cried Mr. Ponsonby. “Mr. Pickett is a dangerously deranged man, and he has utterly despicable villains in his employ—”
“Yes, we know,” said Miss Rendlesham. “We know it was your joke to teach Mr. Pickett that appalling accent, and that he understandably dismissed you for it. And now you invade our privacy to further traduce your former employer. Perhaps you are some sort of blackmailer? I wonder if we would do better to simply send for the constable.”
Mr. Ponsonby appeared about to bolt for the stairs at this suggestion. Dora moved to block the way; and despite her wide-eyed kitten looks, her very posture suggested that attempting to pass her would be a serious error. Miss Rendlesham could see that her victim was ready to capitulate (although he was not enjoying his helplessness as much as her patrons usually did). She therefore sharpened her tone, and ordered him brusquely to tell her all.
Which he did not do—it being obvious very quickly that he did not know as much as they on many fronts—but what he did have to say was a useful corroboration of details. Some of it was quite enlightening. His eagerness (and fear) combined to make his tale both brief and somewhat incoherent; but Miss Rendlesham was used to that sort of response. She frowned at him severely as he finally ran down.
“Is that all, Ponsonby?” she asked, contemptuously. “You claim Mr. Pickett has engineered some underwater juggernaut, and means to attack coastal vessels? I suppose he is threatening the anchovy fleet. And he has hired man-servants whom you find objectionable! And this intelligence you bring not to the police nor the harbor authorities, but to Miss Corvey? I suggest, Ponsonby, that you are a poor judge of the qualities wanted in a gentleman’s servant.”
“But it’s all true! He is a dangerous villain!” cried the wretched Mr. Ponsonby.
“Be off with you now, you horrid little man.” Miss Rendlesham rose to her feet, waving her hand in dismissal. “You shall find no blackmail opportunities here. I refrain from summoning the constable only to spare my aunt and our hostess the embarrassment of having you publicly removed; but I shall have you taken up for Conduct Likely to Lead to an Affray if I see you here again.”
Ponsonby gaped at her. Miss Rendlesham smiled—a small, cruel, smile—and suddenly strode toward him with a stamp of her foot, like a saber fighter. Ponsonby squeaked and fled down the outside stairs, from in front of which Dora had prudently removed herself.
From the sound of his departure, he missed the last two or three steps, and thumped down into the courtyard with a small cry of pain. In only a moment, though, they could here him pattering away in terror.
“That looked like fun,” said Dora as they went back indoors.
“You know, it rather was,” admitted Miss Rendlesham. “So many things are tedious when performed as duty, that become a decided pleasure when one does them for one’s own enjoyment.”
“That’s why I never do anything I don’t really like,” said Dora seriously.
“Well, Dora, your tastes are rather more catholic than mine, I fear,” Miss Rendlesham said. “But here we are—now let us go in and tell the others, and decide what must be done next. And I think it might be a good idea to check in with Mr. Felmouth, as well.”
“Do you think it is actually a matter of life and death?”
“Not to our Ladies,” said Miss Rendlesham confidently.
“Oh, I hope Beatrice and Mrs. Corvey come home soon…”
They returned then to the parlor for a council of war.
Mr. Pickett was markedly reserved as he and Lady Beatrice walked slowly home along the cliff path. His mood had initially threatened sulkiness, but she would have none of that—a post-coitally downcast Mr. Pickett was of no use to her, whereas a triumphant one could be manipulated into spilling his heart to her. As it were.
By dint of a little clinging, a few tremulously smiling tears, and the loan of her silk handkerchief, Lady Beatrice
had Mr. Pickett considerably cheered up by the time they were in sight of the lighted windows of his house. They walked slowly, his arm about her waist and her whole frame swaying against his from shoulder to knee. Whenever Mr. Pickett made sounds indicating a resumption of speech, Lady Beatrice sighed and pressed a little closer, which served to keep him admirably silent until they came to the garden gate.
He stopped their progress there.
“And so we return to the mortal world,” he said, a little wistfully. “And if my passion overcame me too forcefully, dearest Beatrice, I hope you know it was the madness of a man transported for a blessed time to the company of a goddess! Will you take my marital avowal as spoken aloud?”
Lady Beatrice smiled at him serenely. “Of course, Tredway. We are adults, after all. And I accept.”
Pickett’s face lit with slightly stunned delight. “You will be my wife—my helpmeet—my partner in this great enterprise?”
“Have I not said so?” said Lady Beatrice (who had said nothing of the sort). “But let us not surprise Mamma with the happy news tonight, I pray you. Allow me to tell her in my own time.”
Pickett raised her hands and rained kisses upon them. “I will trust to your wisdom, my grey-eyed goddess! And do assure your ma that I will go down on my knees to ask her blessing, even though you have already given me the gift of your acceptance!”
“She will be as happy as I am,” Lady Beatrice told him with perfect truth.
Arm in arm, then, they made their way through the dark gardens to where the parlor doors spilled light over the grass.
Within, Mrs. Corvey was seated alone on the single divan, sipping a cup of tea and evidently listening to the sound of the sea from the open French doors on the far side of the room. Several branches of candles blazed throughout the room, giving no aid (of course) to Mrs. Corvey, but endowing the sparse furnishings with a fine flattering gilding. As Lady Beatrice and Mr. Pickett entered together, Mrs. Corvey’s blind gaze swung in their direction. She smiled slightly, almost as if she could discern their intertwined arms from the rhythm of their gait.