The Chemickal Marriage

by Gordon Dahlquist

  ‘Lady Axewith is extremely kind.’

  ‘Bothersome scold. Husband should switch her raw.’ The Queen grunted. ‘Venice.’

  ‘Your Majesty’s memory is very fine,’ replied the Contessa.

  ‘Should be Rome. One prefers Italians with pedigree.’

  The Duchess cleared her throat. ‘Lord Axewith waits, Your Majesty, for your seal. Lord Vandaariff is insistent, given the popular crisis –’

  ‘Popular does not last.’

  ‘No, Majesty. But Lord Vandaariff has made a most generous guarantee –’

  ‘Lord Axewith can wait.’ The Queen shifted on the submerged throne, slopping the water over her arms and draping her voice in a fuller malevolence. ‘What do you want?’

  The Contessa blinked her violet eyes. ‘Why, nothing at all, ma’am.’

  ‘Then you waste your time as well as mine! Lady Axewith shall no longer be admitted! Hellfire, Poppy, if every trivial foreign person –’

  ‘Beg pardon, ma’am. I have come not for myself, but for you.’

  At the Contessa’s interruption the Queen’s expression became fierce. Her wide mouth snapped like a pug’s. ‘You – you – this – Poppy –’

  Steam rose up around the Contessa’s placid face. ‘My errand concerns Your Majesty’s late brother.’

  ‘All my brothers are late!’ the Queen replied in a roar.

  ‘The Duke of Stäelmaere, Your Majesty, who was Privy Minister.’

  The Queen snorted suddenly, noting the Contessa’s beauty as if it were an unpleasant odour. She waggled her over-fleshed throat. ‘And one supposes you knew him.’

  ‘Indeed, no, ma’am. The Duke had meagre use for any woman.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Surely Majesty … you have heard rumours of the irregular nature of the Duke’s passing.’

  Moisture had pearled across the Contessa’s upper lip. The Duchess was poised to end the audience. The Queen wriggled her nose, then turned for an attendant to wipe it.

  ‘Perhaps I have. Who is she?’

  Miss Temple felt every eye around the pool fall upon her.

  ‘Miss Celestial Temple,’ repeated the Duchess.

  ‘Ridiculous. Name for a Chinaman. Girl should be ashamed.’

  The Contessa slid forward. ‘Your Majesty should know that the Duke, your brother, learnt of a plot against Your Majesty’s health. Naturally he moved to expose it.’

  Miss Temple knew this to be an arrant lie.

  The Queen glowered. The whispers around the pool hushed. The Contessa continued.

  ‘Your brother’s death was an act of murder, Your Majesty, of the highest treason. And now others taken into the Duke’s confidence have been attacked. Lord Pont-Joule, murdered yesterday. Inside the Palace.’

  The Queen’s voice fell to a throaty amphibian quaver. ‘My Pont-Joule? No one has said!’

  ‘I did not wish to disturb Your Majesty,’ began the Duchess, ‘on the advice –’

  ‘Of Lord Axewith.’ The Contessa shook her head knowingly. ‘Who of course acts on the advice of Lord Vandaariff. Lady Axewith – who has been so kind to me – was another secret ally of the Duke. Her own sudden illness – for illness it seems –’

  ‘I have heard of no illness! Lady Axewith?’

  ‘Victim to the same poison that slew the Duke. But the good woman had the wit to understand the attack upon her for what it was, an attack upon the state.’

  The whispers around the pool boiled into an urgent nattering. The Duchess cried out and splashed for quiet. In the turmoil the Contessa’s hidden foot hooked Miss Temple’s knee and drew her closer to the Queen.

  ‘Majesty, I am dispatched to bring the only proof Lady Axewith could find. Celeste, tell Her Majesty what you know.’

  Miss Temple had no idea what the Contessa desired her to say.

  ‘Is the girl simple?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘Only frightened, ma’am.’ The Contessa’s hand slipped unseen to Miss Temple’s waist, stroking gently. ‘The Duke, Celeste. The Duke and the mirrored room.’

  Miss Temple felt her throat clench as a memory rose up whole.

  The Duke of Stäelmaere’s recruitment by the Cabal had been planned to every degree, exploiting the cruelty for which the Duke was famous. Stäelmaere had duly arrived at Harschmort House and been taken by the Comte d’Orkancz to a secret viewing room. Hidden behind a wall of Dutch glass he had watched Lord Robert Vandaariff receive an apparently endless line of peers, industrialists, clerics and diplomats – all pledging their fealty in the case of an imminent, but unnamed, national crisis. Persuaded by the grovelling of such impressive minions, His Grace had joined the conspiracy, and soon after journeyed to Tarr Manor for a first-hand look at the glories of indigo clay – an expedition that had ended instead with a bullet through the Duke’s heart, and his corpse’s resuscitation, by virtue of the blue glass, as a walking, croaking puppet.

  The Comte’s recollections flooded Miss Temple’s brain. She inhaled through her nose, the acrid steam clarifying her mind.

  ‘By accident, Your Majesty, I became separated from my fiancé, Roger Bascombe, who, before his untimely death, was to be the next Lord Tarr –’

  The Queen squinted – there were so many lords.

  The Contessa gripped her waist. ‘Her Majesty’s brother, Celeste …’

  ‘Just so. I was lost, you see, and the house so very large. I entered a strange room – and who else was in it but the Duke of Stäelmaere? He waved me to silence, and I saw that one entire wall was made of glass. We gazed into another room full of people, and not one of them paid the least attention, though we were as near as I to you. The glass was a one-sided mirror!’

  ‘Wicked invention.’ The Queen squirmed in her seat. ‘Wicked.’

  ‘Very wicked,’ agreed Miss Temple. ‘And through the mirror we watched a parade of distinguished figures, bowing and scraping to the same person, as if he were a king. At each fawning suitor the Duke clenched his fist as if to say “Damn you for a traitor, Lord Whatsit!” When the last had gone, His Grace swore me to secrecy, promising justice would be done.’

  The Queen furrowed an already layered brow. ‘But who … who was the person in the other room?’

  ‘I do beg your pardon,’ said Miss Temple, doing her best to imitate the Contessa’s tone. ‘I was at Harschmort House, of course, and the man the Duke caught planning to overthrow Your Majesty’s government was Lord Robert Vandaariff.’

  The ladies at the pool’s edge fell silent. ‘My intent is to warn Your Majesty of the threat to your own person,’ offered the Contessa. ‘Until now, we had put our faith in Lord Pont-Joule –’

  ‘And Lady Axewith,’ added Miss Temple rather boldly.

  ‘Lady Axewith, yes. Her husband, I fear, may be too naive for the role that has been thrust upon him. In his ignorance, the Privy Minister seems little more than Robert Vandaariff’s confidential secretary …’

  ‘Poppy?’

  The Queen was querulous. The Duchess swam to her. ‘You are safe, Your Majesty –’

  ‘Won’t see anyone! Won’t talk to a soul! Won’t sign a scrap!’

  ‘Of course not, Majesty. But if we can get news of Lady Axewith –’

  The Contessa tugged at Miss Temple’s bathing costume, signalling their subtle retreat.

  ‘Says she’s poisoned!’ hissed the Queen.

  ‘We will send word, Your Majesty, and hurry to Lady Axewith,’ the Contessa offered. ‘But I do urge every precaution be taken with regard to your person. The threat is grave.’

  The Queen groaned aloud and began to flail, her attendants moaning in choric sympathy. The Duchess pleaded uselessly for order. The Contessa hauled Miss Temple from the pool.

  ‘Meet no one’s eye, do not hurry, do not speak.’ They had not reached the doorway before details of Vandaariff’s plot echoed around them, rebounding in a dozen more dire variations. In the attiring room, the Contessa flung Miss Temple to an attendant and hurried to her own, the butto
ns of her bathing costume ripped free, dancing on the floor.

  ‘My dress!’ she barked at an attendant, and then to Miss Temple, ‘Stop staring, you imbecile! Move!’

  But Miss Temple could not move: too much was happening too quickly. Her bathing costume was stripped away and her skin chuffed to vigorous life by the attendant’s strong hands – hands that thrust the towel without apology, like a dog’s prodding nose, into every tender crevice. Again the Contessa stood nude, arms up, tearing the white turban and shaking her dark curls free. Her breasts shifted with the movement, a sketching measure of their soft weight, and with a whimper Miss Temple arched to her toes. Heedless of her distress, the Contessa primped with a practised economy, while the attendant worked the first stocking up her leg and towards the tangle of black hair.

  ‘With luck, if your Mr Pfaff is not a total donkey …’

  Miss Temple shut her eyes, yet in her mind she knew more, too much, the tips of her fingers tingled, a pearling cleft, her tongue –

  In utter frustration Miss Temple slapped her thighs until the white skin burnt with the imprint of each hand. The attendant retreated, in fear. The Contessa caught Miss Temple’s wrists.

  ‘Celeste.’

  Miss Temple turned her face, not wanting another slap.

  ‘O good Lord.’ The Contessa motioned her attendant to help the other. ‘I will manage my own. Get her sorted.’

  With both women tugging her to order, Miss Temple’s shame overcame her stimulation and eventually she stood, corset tight and tied, dress restored. The Contessa pushed money at the attendants and waved them out. She met Miss Temple’s hapless, tear-streaked face with an intolerant glare.

  ‘Our survival depends on whether Lord Axewith still waits outside.’

  ‘Why Lord Axewith?’ Miss Temple’s eyes burnt. ‘I thought it was Lady Axewith –’

  ‘Lord Axewith waits for Her Majesty’s seal. His declarations do not require it, but – the crisis being what it is – he is frightened. Lord Vandaariff – who is rich and never wrong – has offered his aid and Axewith has leapt for it like a bishop in a choir loft. Yet, because these orders will spark new blazes of unrest – people displaced and their property claimed – Axewith, for he is weak, and Vandaariff, for he is shrewd, want the Queen to issue the commands, allowing Her Majesty – who is despised already – to take the blame. But now, because of your story, the Queen will refuse to sign any order coming from Vandaariff, whom she considers a traitor. The Queen’s refusal will be a denouncement, which means the orders cannot be issued at all! Unless, that is, Axewith has lost patience, walked out and issued them himself!’

  ‘But why should he? If he has waited so long –’

  ‘O Celeste, why should a man do anything?’

  ‘So if Axewith is gone –’

  The Contessa pulled Miss Temple to the door. ‘Then we, little piglet, are undone!’

  The door was thrust open by a heavy woman with hair as bright as a Spanish tangerine. For an instant each side smiled in apology, but then the heavy lady’s face went white with shock.

  ‘You! How dare you! How dare you show yourself here!’

  ‘Lady Hopton, how unexpected –’

  ‘Harlot! I have just come from Axewith House!’

  The Contessa stepped back, eyes lowered before the other woman’s rage, hands submissively behind her back. ‘Indeed? I trust Lady Axewith is well –’

  ‘You trust! Lady Axewith is dead! But, unlike her physician, I am not blind to the cause!’ Lady Hopton raised a fist. She shook it at the Contessa – still cowed by the woman’s anger – then wheeled round with a snort for the far door. ‘Out of my way, you filth! Once I speak to the Queen –’

  The Contessa lunged, a cord in her hands. In a flash it was around Lady Hopton’s throat.

  Lady Hopton careened in a circle, straining for the door she’d come through. Her face went cherry-red, her mouth a garish, gasping hole. The Contessa tightened the cord with a convulsive snarl, dislodging Lady Hopton’s tangerine wig. The hair beneath was thin and grey. But still the woman bulled forward, swiping at Miss Temple, her voice a terrified rasp.

  ‘Help –’

  ‘Stop her!’ grunted the Contessa. ‘If she opens that door we will be seen!’

  Miss Temple froze, transfixed by the bulging eyes – this poor proud woman who had spoken to the Contessa just as Miss Temple had always wanted to. With a helpless clarity Miss Temple saw where she had placed herself, and how desolate her future had become.

  She ducked Lady Hopton’s arms and seized her dress, wrenching the woman from the door. Lady Hopton whined with dismay, but the Contessa twisted the cord and the sound soured to an ugly rattle. For five seconds the three of them hung suspended, then Lady Hopton collapsed. Without pause the Contessa knelt on the fallen woman’s chest and, leverage improved, pulled the cord taut for another half-minute.

  ‘Took you long enough.’ The Contessa dragged the dead woman to the nearest wardrobe niche. ‘Pick up her filthy wig.’

  The attendants were told with a tactful nod that Lady Hopton required privacy for a conversation, and that any new arrivals might be shown to another attiring room altogether. Back on the mildewed landing, Colonel Bronque waited alone at the rail. The older lady who had shown them to the attiring room called with a knowing smile. ‘Did you meet Lady Hopton?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The old woman’s eyes glittered. ‘I believe she took your same route to the baths.’

  ‘We did not see her for the steam,’ the Contessa answered blandly. ‘No doubt Lady Hopton waits upon Her Majesty even now.’ The Contessa turned to Colonel Bronque and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Lord Axewith was called away.’ Bronque indicated the satchel at his feet. ‘I am entrusted with his errand.’

  ‘Called away?’

  ‘The city is on fire.’

  The Contessa wound an errant strand of hair around a finger. ‘How much of the city?’

  The old lady cleared her throat with a peevish determination. ‘Not one to make your enemy, is Lady Hopton.’

  The Contessa’s reply was interrupted by a door opening behind them and the Duchess of Cogstead, wrapped in a robe, stepping through.

  ‘You!’ she called.

  Miss Temple did not move.

  ‘Colonel Bronque!’ shouted the Duchess, with impatience. ‘You have Lord Axewith’s papers?’

  Bronque clicked his heels together. ‘I do, Your Grace –’

  ‘Then you are required, sir! At once!’

  Bronque rattled down the stairs and disappeared after the Duchess. The Contessa turned to the old lady.

  ‘I am obliged for your kindness.’

  The old lady glared. ‘Kindness played no part in the matter.’

  The Contessa grinned. ‘It so very seldom does.’

  Miss Temple’s hands shook. Half the time it seemed as if her senses would overwhelm her – but when she had been in her mind and thinking clearly, what had she done but assist with outright murder?

  ‘Why am I here?’ she demanded recklessly. ‘You are a terrible woman!’

  They were hardly alone, and the well-dressed men and women passing in either direction turned at Miss Temple’s angry tone. With a tight smile, the Contessa pressed her mouth to Miss Temple’s ear. ‘Once we are alone –’

  ‘Signora?’ An older man in a topcoat had approached the Contessa. She showed him a graceful smile, keeping hold of Miss Temple’s arm.

  ‘Minister. How do you do? May I present Miss Celestial Temple – Celeste, Lord Shear is Her Majesty’s Minister for Finance.’

  Lord Shear had no interest in Miss Temple. ‘Signora, you know Matthew Harcourt.’

  ‘By acquaintance only, my lord.’

  ‘Still, perhaps you can explain –’

  ‘You know Robert Vandaariff,’ Miss Temple blurted out, stinging at the memory of Lord Shear through the mirror at Harschmort, kneeling like the rest. ‘If he asked it, you would lick his shoes
. And then I daresay you would lick his –’

  The Contessa spun Miss Temple to the nearest door and shoved her through. ‘I beg your pardon – the girl’s not well – father ruined, drink and gambling –’

  She slammed the door in the face of the sputtering peer. The Contessa snatched a paper-knife off a writing table. Miss Temple backed away, arms outstretched. She opened her mouth, wanting to shout her defiance, but no words came. Her chest shuddered. She could not breathe. Miss Temple sank down to her knees, her words a half-voiced wail.

  ‘What has become of me?’

  She choked with sobs, cheeks wet and hot, half blind. The Contessa advanced. Miss Temple swatted at her, fingers splayed. But instead of an attack the Contessa knelt and extended the hand without the knife to Miss Temple’s face.

  ‘You are not so very pretty, you know, that you can withstand such fits. Round faces when they redden extinguish sympathy in a person. You are better served by disdain. Which I suppose is usually your own luck.’

  Miss Temple sniffed thickly. Though soft, the Contessa’s voice was not kind.

  ‘There are two things I can think of to address your problem – you may well imagine what they are – but both will make you scream’– here the Contessa smiled and Miss Temple whimpered – ‘and too many people are too near.’

  ‘That woman – Lady Hopton –’

  ‘Had to die, and at once. But half the court has seen you with me, and, while I may brazen out an ignorance of Lady Hopton, I can hardly do so for you – and so …’ She tapped Miss Temple’s nose with the paper-knife. ‘I cannot take your life here. Unless, Celeste, you give me no other option.’

  Miss Temple swallowed. ‘But why did you bring me?’

  ‘The Comte’s memory, of course. You had seen those rooms. You spied on me.’

  ‘But – but it was the Comte with the Duke, watching Vandaariff – I had to change everything –’

  ‘Which you did.’

  ‘But if the story had to be made up and changed, what did it matter that I knew it at all? Why didn’t you tell it yourself?’

  ‘O I could have, but never so feelingly. The Queen is highly suspicious of anyone seeking favour – by claiming no favour for myself, and by producing a witness without hope of advancement, the odds she would believe the tale were much increased. And besides, you did know the story. Even with the necessary embroidery, it did not sound a lie. And if the Queen did declare it a lie – always possible, she is as contrary as a mule – it was not me who’d done the lying.’