Newt's Emerald

by Garth Nix

  “You the gent who’s to go across to Park Lane and then back to the Square?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Yes,” she muttered, keeping her voice low, and hat well down, shading her face.

  “Right. Well, jump up, sir.”

  Truthful, who had been waiting to be handed up, started, then jumped in as best she could. There was straw on the floor of the cab, and she brushed her boots down automatically, thinking of how awful it would be to arrive anywhere with the tell-tale straw of a hackney on one’s costume.

  The drive to Park Lane, and then along it, was a nervous one for Truthful, who had never thought to be alone in a cab at midnight, in the middle of London … and dressed as a man!

  But the drive was uneventful. They passed several other carriages, a group of lantern-bearing street-keepers gathered at the Grosvenor Gate into Hyde Park, and a number of tipsy young gentlemen who were trying to walk backwards along the full length of Park Lane, apparently for a bet, as they were urged on by a number of others who were walking the normal way beside them.

  Ten minutes later, the hackney pulled up outside Lady Badgery’s house and Truthful jumped down. She turned back for a moment to hand the driver a guinea, a massive overpayment were it not for the added gruff instruction: “Forget you came here this evening.”

  Then she was knocking on the door — a firm, but polite knock, that she felt might reflect the character of a religious-minded young gentleman.

  After five minutes had produced no discernible effect on the other side of the door, she knocked again. The door opened, presenting the cautious visage of the elder footman, with the second footman behind him holding a stout cudgel. Before they could speak, Truthful gruffly proclaimed her new identity.

  “I am the Chevalier Henri de Vienne, cousin to Lady Badgery. I believe I am expected.”

  Chapter Five

  Major Harnett’s Manuscript

  The next few days passed in a rush of activity for both Truthful’s personas. As Lady Truthful Newington, she drove out to Hyde Park with Lady Badgery in her barouche at the fashionable hour between five and six, thereupon meeting many of the Dowager’s friends and not a few young gallants; she visited the Dowager’s modiste and ordered several gowns of the latest fashion; made two morning visits to family friends; attended one very modest, well-bred and yawn-inducing evening card-party; and received a great number of callers.

  The Chevalier de Vienne ostensibly spent most of his time secluded in one of the upper bedchambers, in silent contemplation and prayer. But when Lady Truthful was resting between excursions or guests, the Chevalier rode out to call upon the jewellers of London. The servants, noticing the care he took to avoid “meeting” Truthful, thought him very shy. The grooms, noting his unsteady seat when riding astride put it down to him being French. Truthful was a fine horsewoman, but she was used to a side-saddle.

  Armed with explanatory letters from Lady Truthful and Lady Badgery, the elegant young Frenchman was met with unvarying politeness and differing degrees of unctuousness by the jewellers, but none proved of any help. The matter was not made easier because Truthful could not come straight out and talk about the Newington Emerald, but only enquire about any particularly large and sorcerous stones they might have heard were suddenly for sale. But apart from the relatively regular re-appearance of the cursed Calendula Diamond, no large and sorcerous jewels had surfaced among the more reputable jewellers, and the less respectable (who hinted at underworld connections) were no more use. Nearly all the jewellers tried to sell the young Frenchman something from their own stock, and indeed she was tempted by a number of items that were not only beautiful, but imbued with minor charms.

  Truthful was riding back from just such a meeting when she took a wrong turning, and then another. Fortunately a watchman came up behind her, and seeing a young, foreign-looking gentlemen gazing about in consternation, directed her attention to the dome of St Paul’s as a useful landmark, and told her to take the next road on the left.

  But this turning brought her to a lane that was crowded with the business of paper and books. Men were carrying quires of paper, loading them onto carts; others transporting paper-wrapped packages of what could only be books. Here and there, men of a more scholarly look moved through doorways, or down sunken steps.

  It was very much a scene of industry, and Truthful felt certain that her immaculate coat of blue superfine, buckskin pantaloons and black hessian top-boots would not survive passage unmarked. Nervously, she began to wheel her horse around, still gazing back at the workmen, some of whom returned her gaze in what she thought was a threatening manner.

  She had almost brought the horse around when it suddenly shied, and she looked back to her front in horror, as a man leapt away from under the horse’s forefeet, dropping paper everywhere and cursing.

  “Damn it, man!” he cried, staring up at Truthful as she leaned forward to calm her mount, muttering soothing words in French. As always, the horse responded more to her innate sorcery than any words, and quietened immediately.

  “Sir!” exclaimed the man again, in a voice loud with anger. “I ask you to look at me when I am speaking to you!”

  Truthful leaned back in the saddle, her mount now calm and steady. Closing her eyes for an instant, she thought of what her cousins would do in a similar circumstance. Then she opened her eyes and looked down.

  The man was staring furiously up at her, brandishing a wad of papers in his hand and gesturing at the others lying ruined on the street — churned into the mud, or cut by the horse’s hooves. He was coatless, and Truthful saw that his shirt was both crumpled and ink-stained, and his breeches and boots deserved better care. He looked to be some six or seven years older than herself, and his features, if not set in anger, could be described as handsome. He had a particularly fine shock of jet-black hair.

  Truthful saw him like a picture for a moment, then the sound and anger washed back over her, and she thought of her cousin’s tales of similar encounters.

  “I am looking at you, sir,” she said, in her deepest and most French-sounding voice. “And I am sorry I have ruined your papers. Would a guinea cover the damage?”

  She reached in her waistcoat pocket for the coin, but this mollifying action only seemed to enrage the man still further.

  “It would be a sorry day if I let a Frenchman trammel my ‘Badajoz Diary’ into the road,” he said coldly. “Dismount, sir, and I’ll teach you a lesson in manners, if not horsemanship!”

  Truthful stared down at his set face, and fought back an urge to cry. No-one had ever spoken to her like that before, but fear soon gave way to her own anger.

  “It is not in my nature, to partake in fisticuffs with any . . . paper-carrier or clerk.” she said, equally coldly. “I am the Chevalier de Vienne, not some common—”

  “This is England,” interrupted the man, stepping closer and seizing her stirrup. “And here you’ll find a Duke wouldn’t turn aside from a proper turn-up with a pot-boy, let alone a paper-carrier, if the occasion warranted it. So if you won’t step down, Monsoor Chevalier, I’ll turn you from your horse for my lesson!”

  “As you wish,” replied Truthful, ire and trepidation mingling together in her butterflying stomach. Whoever the man was, he spoke very well, and was obviously no paper carrier. She dismounted, the horse between them, and looked back over the saddle. He was almost a head taller than Truthful, and only her high-crowned hat took her to near his size.

  “I hope you remember that it was not I who chose this quarrel, but an accident,” she began, stepping out from behind her mount and raising her fists in the manner the Newington-Lacys had tried to teach her on several occasions, and that she had seen on her disguised excursions with them.

  “Indeed,” said the man. He stepped forward likewise, and raised two large and very solid-looking fists. Truthful trembled as he did so, but she didn’t retreat, and looked him squarely in the eye.

  “Please don’t mark my face,” she said suddenly, thinking o
f the difficulties a black eye would raise for Lady Truthful. She clenched her fists again at the thought, presenting a slim boyish figure, with a fighting stance as open as a door.

  “I don’t think I can hit you at all,” replied the man, dropping his fists. “You’re a plucky devil, lad, but you’re not up to my weight. It’d be like striking a child.”

  “I’m thankful for that, sir,” said Truthful, honestly, dropping her own guard. “I am sorry I made you drop those papers. They are not too important, I trust?”

  “That all depends on whom you might ask!” laughed the man, all traces of rage melting from his face. “It is my account of the Siege of Badajoz. The final manuscript. I was just taking it to my publishers, when I am beset by a Frenchman! Now I shall have to copy or rewrite at least two score of pages!”

  “Again, I beg your pardon,” said Truthful, bending down to help him pick up the fallen pages. As she passed them to him, one caught her eye. The title page, torn in half, but with Badajoz Diary — by a Soldier penned in an elegant script, and under that “Major Harnett, 95th Rifles.”

  “You are Major Harnett?” she blurted out, as he took the page, frowning at its condition.

  “I was a soldier,” he replied. “You speak very good English for a Frenchman, Chevalier.”

  “Ah,” said Truthful hastily. “My cousins are English, and I had an English tutor. I have always studied most diligently, sir.”

  “I can believe it,” said Harnett dryly. “You certainly can’t box. You should visit Gentleman Jackson and learn a little science if you stay long in England. Your cousins will take you, I’m sure.”

  “They are both ladies,” replied Truthful. Remembering her story she added, “I have no partiality for sparring or sport of any kind. I am to become a monk.”

  “No!” cried the Major, quite taken aback. “That’s infamous! You’re a young game-cock if ever I saw one. You should be cutting a spree, not mouldering in religion!”

  “That is what father says,” sighed Truthful, playing her role to the full. “But I have always desired solitude, and the quiet contemplation of Christ . . .”

  “Hold hard!” cried Harnett. “How old are you, boy?”

  “Nineteen,” replied Truthful.

  “I was with the 95th in Spain when I was nineteen,” mused Harnett, shaking his head sorrowfully. Truthful smiled to herself as she realised he was thinking of her as what her cousins would call “a regular green ’un”.

  “Well, there’s not too much harm done,” he said, thrusting out a hand and smiling engagingly. “I daresay I’ve sometimes not looked where I was going.”

  “You are most kind, sir,” replied Truthful, clasping his hand with what she hoped was a manly gesture. But as they touched, a spark of something shot through her arm. She gripped his fingers lightly, and couldn’t meet his eye.

  “Perhaps, Major,” she said, hastily letting go, “you could direct me how I might find my way from here to Grosvenor Square.”

  “Grosvenor Square?” said Harnett, raising an eyebrow. “Who are your cousins?”

  “I am staying with Lady Badgery,” replied Truthful, “and my cousin, her great-niece, who is Lady Truthful Newington.”

  “Don’t know either of them,” said Harnett. “I don’t go out in society much these days. Newington? There’s an old buzzard of an Admiral by that name . . .”

  “He is not an old buzzard!” exclaimed Truthful angrily. “He is my . . . my cousin also! I am not surprised you do not go about in society, if that is how you speak of respectable people!”

  “I mean no harm,” replied the Major, with surprise. “You’ve a very womanish sensibility, my boy, if that sort of talk offends. I daresay you’ve yet to see the insides of Cribb’s Parlour, or a hell—”

  “And I do not intend to,” snapped Truthful. “Now, sir, if you will direct me to Grosvenor Square!”

  “Of course,” replied the Major. “Of course . . . Newington . . . Newington. There was something else about the name, some on-dit about town, I heard yesterday . . . ”

  “Oh!” cried Truthful, forgetting to be angry, her voice going high. Then, more gruffly, “Please, tell me what it was?”

  “I should have recalled it earlier,” mused the Major, stepping back and looking Truthful up and down as she blushed hotly and clenched her fists. “Yes, I should have indeed, with the evidence in front of me! As I said, Chevalier, I infrequently visit London, and am not sociable at all. But last night I came to town to dine with friends, and I heard a curious story about a heiress who has come to London in search of a lost gem, and since she cannot actively search for it herself, employs her French cousin to so on her behalf. A womanish sort of cousin, I am told, who is excessively quiet and pious. Hardly the sort of fellow one employs in such a serious affair, even if you are due more credit than the tale tells.”

  “Lady Troutbridge!” hissed Truthful, wishing that whatever sickness had slowed her gossip would return threefold. Then, louder, she said, “Lady Truthful had no one else to turn to, sir. But it is true that I am not practised in these matters.”

  “Have you talked to someone who is?” asked Harnett, and Truthful saw that he was quite serious. He wasn’t mocking her.

  “Non,” she replied despondently. “I know so few people in London. My friends are all abroad. It is impossible.”

  “There is one man you should definitely consult,” said Harnett. “In fact, I shall be taking supper with him tonight at White’s. I think you should accompany me.”

  “White’s!” exclaimed Truthful, thinking of that solid male bastion, its many highly sorcerous members, and the potential fragility of her glamour. “But I am not a member!”

  “In that case, we shall both be guests of General Leye,” said Major Harnett. “He is just the man to help you and Lady Truthful find your lost jewel.”

  Truthful looked at him cautiously. He seemed friendly enough now, and his air of easy competence was comforting. But he could represent a danger to Lady Truthful, at least. An unknown, sold-out Major who dressed in such a slipshod fashion (even in a back street) might well be a fortune-hunter of some kind. He certainly looked like he needed money. He freely admitted to not going about in society, and he wasn’t a member of White’s. Evidently he was not a man of the first stare. But if he knew General Leye, as he claimed . . .

  Truthful had heard a great deal about him, for General Leye had been the premier spy-catcher of the long wars against Napoleon, and must certainly have the sort of inquisitive mind and experience that would greatly aid her search for the Emerald.

  “I must accept,” she said finally. “Truly, I need help. At what hour, Major?”

  “Oh, ten at the club,” replied the Major. “I’d give you my card, but I’ve left my case in my coat. Just ask for General Leye. We’ll be in a private supper room, of course. There’s no need to tell Lady Truthful about this. Best to keep the womenfolk in the dark on the details. Tell ’em you’re out with friends.”

  “Of course,” replied Truthful, the faintest smile twitching her lips. They shook hands again, she mounted to ride away, hesitated, and both said, “Directions!”

  Harnett gave her the directions she required, without condescension, and watched her walk her horse to the corner and advance into a trot. As she disappeared out of sight, two other men sauntered out of doorways nearby. One was the watchman who’d given Truthful the earlier directions that had led to her to the lane, and the other was a man dressed much like Harnett, if a little more stained with ink.

  “An interesting method of introduction,” the latter said as he strolled across. “But I wish you hadn’t used my manuscript.”

  “I had to look like I belonged in this inky little street,” replied the ‘Major’. “I’m afraid I’ve had to appropriate your name as well, the Frenchman saw the title page. I’m glad you were here, Harnett. I’ve been following him all morning without the chance of concocting an accidental meeting.”

  “Thank you for your part t
oo, Sergeant Ruggins,” he added to the watchman, who was standing at attention next to the real Harnett.

  “I don’t know why I oblige you, Charles,” said Harnett, taking his manuscript and looking at it sadly. “Heaven knows why I do, considering the scrapes you’ve got me into.”

  “My natural charm,” said Charles, who had turned back to look out the way Truthful departed. “There’s something dashed peculiar about that Frenchman, James. A whiff of sorcery of some kind. I can’t quite fathom it yet, but I’m glad the General asked me to look into the fellow. Boney still has his supporters, both in and out of France and they have not despaired of releasing him from the Rock.”

  “Cloak and dagger,” muttered Harnett, shaking his head, though he knew in the case of his old friend that it was not merely the war that had turned him against the French. “You and the General have been in your twilight world too long, Charles. I’ll wager you haven’t even told your uncle and aunt you’re back in England.”

  “True enough,” replied Charles, taking him by the arm and leading him back through the doorway. “But I am planning to retire after this matter of the Frenchman and the Newington Emerald. Now, tell me what you know about Lady Truthful Newington. Is she as beautiful as they say, or merely rich and spoilt?”

  “All three, I suspect,” replied Harnett. “Haven’t met her. Duckmanton saw her in the park, and declares her ravishing but over-proud.”

  Sergeant Ruggins, closing the door after the two gentleman, heard his superior laugh, and caught the words “Duckmanton . . . aground . . . heiress” and then “mooncalf”, before the door slammed, and their voices were lost in the grinding of the key in the iron lock.

  Chapter Six

  Supper at White’s

  Truthful returned to Lady Badgery’s house in the guise of the Chevalier de Vienne, made a brief re-appearance as herself to announce that she had a sick headache and would not be attending a planned card party that night, then devoted herself to preparing her evening costume for the appearance of de Vienne at White’s.