“You have questions, Sonja, and I can’t say I blame you.” He put his arm around her, held her as she pressed her cheek onto the breast of his duffel. “I promise to tell you anything you want to know, leaving nothing out.”
“That’s sweet. And I don’t mean to keep you dangling like this, but we have to get something straight. It’s important. That night in Portsmouth, you met a woman on the harbour wall, and she gave you something. I know because I was there. I followed you.”
“You...? Oh, now I see.” He looked out at the unobstructed view to Clarence Pier, where umpteen small cargo vessels were berthed, ready to be unloaded. Along the coast, Portsmouth harbour shimmered in the afternoon haze. Dozens of tall masts, belching funnels, and airships of all shapes and sizes poked their heads over the bed of oily heat. “It’s a wonder you didn’t slam the door in my face.”
“You’re not yourself, Derek. You’re worried about something. What is it?”
“I feel trapped.”
“By what?”
He exhaled at length. “By duty, by family, by circumstance, and before I proposed to you, I would have said by love, too. You see, I went to London a free man with a world of prospects. I came back a prisoner to them. Certain parties would not look kindly on me for telling you this, but you deserve to know. And I can’t keep you in the dark any longer.”
“You can tell me anything.” Even though the other woman in the equation—Gangly Girl—preyed on that statement. If she was more than a messenger in all this, if the two of them had a history, a romantic past, well, that would change things. But even though Sonja had no experience whatsoever in these matters, something told her Derek’s situation had more to do with what Gangly Girl had given him than Gangly Girl herself.
“The day I was inducted into the Leviacrum, I was invited to Hell’s Foyer that night...” He relayed the entire story of his dilemma and his verbal recruitment into the Coalition—not the Atlas Club—omitting nothing, as he’d promised. Pity wrung her heart for the impossible situation they’d put him in. Trapped indeed! His dream appointment had become a nightmare, and in many ways he was still living it. Derek was not a political animal. He was too forthright, too sensitive, too romantic in his view of the world. Politics would seek to destroy all that, to turn him into something he wasn’t.
“So I pledged my loyalty to the rebels,” he said, “the same week I vowed to serve the Leviacrum. I’m trying to think of a word other than spy, but that seems to be my lot, I’m afraid. Nessie will be in touch shortly regarding the ins and outs of it all. And that’s about where we’re at. My careers—plural—are to begin officially in six weeks time.”
Even before he’d finished his account, Sonja knew what she had to do, what her role in his life would have to be from here on, saw it so clearly it was as though Mother was telling the story of their future in her inimitable, vivacious manner. It also struck a spark on Sonja’s own rebellious centre, that well-sharpened point she and Merry had honed over years of being at odds with the world around them.
“I will marry you, Derek Auric. And more than that, I will support you one hundred percent in your Coalition endeavours, whatever they may be. To whatever end. As long as we both shall live.”
Of the two sides, she would have chosen the rebels anyway.
He gazed at her, believing, disbelieving, wanting to believe she’d thrown him this lifeline as he struggled to stay afloat. He looked so vulnerable, so grateful, she melted inside and couldn’t help reaching up to kiss his moist warm lips...once, twice, and couldn’t stop.
They might have floated on air without the balloon.
Forever.
Eventually they stopped kissing and huddled together on the deck, utterly private. She’d never felt as warm or as safe, a hundred feet up.
“And you say your family is dead set against us?” She shook her head. “If only they could see us now. If they were still unmoved, they’d have to be Stonehenge, the creatures.”
“It isn’t us. It’s my father, your father, it’s politics, it’s social politics, it’s everything we can’t fight. It’s all this—” He motioned to the air around them and the blue sky outside, “—the nature of things we’ve no control over. Like I said, trapped.”
“No, it’s all that.” Sonja pointed up at the balloon. “Hot bloody air.”
Derek laughed, stuck two fingers up at the offending canopy.
“Exactly, Mr. Coalition Secret Agent. You’ve joined the rebellion; isn’t it about time you started rebelling?”
“Against Father, you mean?”
“Against anyone who means to spoil our happiness because it might interfere with theirs. Let’s be a coalition of two, you and I. Our mission: to become husband and wife in the biggest damn ceremony you ever heard of, by bringing everyone around to our way of thinking.”
“I love it. And if they refuse?”
“Then hang them lot of ‘em. Make up the rules as we go—shouldn’t that be the way of things in 1914?”
“It will be our way, Sonja. You might not realise it, but you’ve saved my life just now.”
She tapped his cheek with her palm. “No more of that talk, sir, if you please. The first rule of the new coalition is...no more of that talk. Now, when shall I go to see your family?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll arrange it right away. But I should warn you, Father’s about the most infuriatingly intransigent man you’ve ever met.”
“Then let the battle commence, because I aim to blast his hulking carcass clean out of the water. As politely as possible, of course.”
He clasped her hands in his, interlacing their fingers. “That’s important. Mother’s lovely—you’ll like her, and she’s certain to like you—but she’s very old-fashioned and conservative, and doesn’t like set-tos. Stick to your guns, by all means, but Mother admires civility and a warm disposition. Be a friend to her, and she’ll be one to you.”
“Noted. And your father?”
“Two words.” He sighed. “Brick wall.”
***
The foyer of Auric House was decked in Italian marble. It boasted an impressive display of authentic airship wheels from famous aeronautical engagements. One had only to read the inscriptions on the ostentatious gold plaques beneath them: Bellerophon, Battle of Cadiz, 1872; Agrippina, Sole Survivor of the Boston Action, 1847; Anne Boleyn, Flagship in the Congolese Exodus, 1855, to be intimidated. That may have been the old man’s intent when he’d installed them, to set visitors immediately on the back foot upon entry.
The balding, middle-aged butler took Derek’s hat and coat, Sonja’s wrap and parasol. He said there was an urgent telephone call awaiting Derek in the library.
“What? Now?”
“Just this minute, sir. The master answered, and when he saw you were arriving, he bid me fetch you at once.”
“Who is it, Beardsley?”
“I can’t rightly say, sir. The master said something about the school.”
“Oh, hell. All right, all right.” He kissed Sonja’s hand. “I’d better take this. The School Board may have made its decision.”
“By all means.”
“I shan’t be long. Beardsley, show my fiancée into the living room, take care of anything she needs.”
“Very good, sir. This way, miss. And may I offer my congratulations.”
“Thank you, Beardsley. Very kind.”
“I’ve known Master Derek all his life. I’m glad he’s finally decided to settle down. Can I bring you anything?”
“Lemonade, if you have any?”
“Very good, miss.”
Quite what she’d expected from the living room of such an impressive stately home she wasn’t sure, but what she found made her chuckle through her nose while no one else was around. It smelled of tar, but otherwise resembled a fully accoutred parlour of the future. All around the room, the wall above the height of the fireplace consisted of hundreds of small, finely woven cushions encased in tinted glass. They were fixed togeth
er to look like a nautical mosaic, a colourful sea vista boasting steam-ships and airships and a spectacular golden sunset which caught the sunlight from the front window and dominated the space over the fireplace. A clever and effective touch.
Brass tubes running along the skirting boards fed steam power from the boiler closet to an impressive variety of gadgetry around the room. A moving picture projector and screen. An automated dumbwaiter. A planetarium machine for projecting images of the night sky onto the darkened ceiling, a fashionable highlight of soirees these days. And most impressive of all, twin automaton figures wearing servants’ uniforms, braced upright against the wall in the far corner. They appeared to be real, functioning automatons, but were probably limited to supervised demonstrations. Only one autonomous prototype existed that she knew of, in Chicago, and these were just toys, if uncannily lifelike.
In the centre of the room, on a makeshift rug of newspapers and a large white cotton sheet, a peculiar wooden object seemed to glare up at her, judging. It was either a hideously deformed hare or an unfinished gargoyle, and sat leaning to one side, as though pricking an ear to listen in.
“Miss McEwan? How do you do-ooo?” A thin, brittle-looking, moustached man of about thirty-five blustered in. He was dressed all in white. A pair of tennis shoes with the laces tied together hung around his neck. He ended up stumbling all the way around Sonja after he almost stepped on the hare. “Bloody hell is that? Oh, right. Father’s heirloom. Sorry about that. I’m Brunnie, Derek’s brother. Pleased to meet you.”
“Very nice to make your acquaintance, Brunnie.”
He clocked her eyeing the monstrous wooden object. “Don’t let that bother you. Frightful thing, I know, but it’s been in our family since 1642, before the Civil War. King Charles II carved several animal figurines when he was only a boy, before he became king of course, before his father lost his head and all that. Anyway, this is the only one left, as far as anyone knows. Means a lot to Father. Sort of an heirloom. It was getting a bit shot at, so he’s restored it himself—just applied the creosote by the smell of it. Ah yes, and now he’s leaving it to dry. Which reminds me, you’re not one of the McEwans, are you? The burrowing sort. That wouldn’t do, you know. All those black marks against your old man. No smoke without fire and all that. I’m sure you’re perfectly belting, but my old man’s rather pinning his hopes on Derek—moved up in the world has the little whippersnapper. Done us proud. Not that I couldn’t have elbowed into the old Leviacrum myself if I’d wanted to. But some of us have to carry the family baton, you know, keep the ink flowing, the pencils sharp, etcetera, etcetera. Say, you can’t be much more than fourteen, fifteen. Have you thought what you’d like to do after school, saying this doesn’t quite work out with Derek?”
He hadn’t drawn a single breath since he’d begun, so she took one for him, then replied, “I’m sorry, was that a question?”
“I merely asked if you had any other prospects? Can’t hurt to plan ahead.”
“Derek and I are engaged to be married.”
“Really? Well, by Jove, how do you like that?” He slung his pair of tennis shoes onto one of the comfortable-looking armchairs. “Do you cook?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, when Father disinherits him and the Leviacrum throws him to the kerb, the two of you won’t be able to afford a housekeeper, I fancy, let alone a cook. Not the most taxing thing in the world, I hear, boiling pans of things and all that. It’ll never last, you know, this...whatever it is between you and Derek. He always was a fickle sort. There’s a big upheaval on the horizon in London, and he’s set to be in the eye of the storm. Won’t be told, of course. Stubborn sod.”
“So which is it?”
“Say what?”
“Is he fickle, or is he stubborn? You just contradicted yourself, old boy.”
“Did I? Damned cheeky of you to point it out. I simply meant to say it’s all rather up in the air for him at the moment, and he shouldn’t go making more promises than he can keep.”
“I’m sure he has it all under—”
“About your father—I hear he’s on his way down again. Is it all kosher this time? No more skulduggery?”
Sonja watched the flames lick high against the bricks in the fireplace as a draught rushed into the room. What she wouldn’t give to stuff this obnoxious prig’s head in there.
“Ah, just in time. Melissa, I’d like to introduce you to Miss McEwan, Derek’s little friend.” And to Sonja, “This is my wife, Melissa, formerly a Carson, of the Washington Carsons. Derek would have married her younger sister Tabitha if only he’d paid her as much mind as he did his damned cellular couplings and the like under his microscope. Bad form. Tabitha was a lovely girl, an absolute peach. Really exquis—”
“Then why didn’t you marry her?” The first sensible thing Sonja had heard since she’d arrived, spoken by the auburn-haired Melissa Auric, a short, freckled, tired-looking woman with severe emaciated features one could cut glass with. She was also dressed in her conservative tennis whites.
“What was that, dear? I’ll have Reynolds run us a bath.” Brunnie was already half out of a door near the automatons, speaking something Sonja couldn’t hear to one of the human servants. “Hot work, doubles. Do you play, Miss McEwan?” he asked on his return.
“Yes, on occasion. As a matter of fact, Derek and I—”
“Oh, yes, we heard about that,” Melissa interrupted while her husband planted himself on the settee, flapped open the morning paper. She placed two expensive racquets on the sideboard, then massaged her own neck. “He says you’ve quite the hammer stroke, knocking shots around the court harder than half the men.”
Sonja blinked at her. “I try.”
“Not really the thing though, is it dear.” If the woman’s insufferable condescending tone were not enough, she stroked Sonja’s cheek with her cold palm, as if to say, There, there, poor tom. “Women should never want to be men. It’s rather unseemly. I’m sure it’s just a phase—you’ll soon grow out of it.”
“I’m sure.” Where the hell was Derek? “Nice racquets you have there, Melissa,” said Sonja. “What kind of wood is—”
“Wood, yes, and not smelling at all seasonal for a living room, I have to say.” Melissa sniffed a few times and pulled a face at the hare. “It’s a family heirloom, you know, been with the Aurics since—”
“1642.” Sonja’s turn to interrupt, and a satisfying one.
“No, I believe it was 1711, King James I.”
Sigh.
“We’ll be sorry to see Derek leave.” Melissa skirted around the newspaper rug in her tennis shoes before leaning on her husband’s shoulder to read the day’s headlines. “You’ll have to write him when he’s gone, Miss McEwan. He’d like that.”
I’ll be doing rather more than that, you nasty cow.
“Say, do you cook?”
Sonja balled her fists. “No. Why? Do you?”
No answer from the uppity in-law. But just when she thought the rehearsed concert might have ended, two more Aurics entered, stage left, to offer their congratulations on her unfortunately ill-advised and ill-timed engagement.
This assault had been hatched in advance, she now knew, each blow coordinated, perhaps to soften her up for the main strike still to come. The latest attackers, Derek’s bewigged uncle, Rufus, and some fat cousin or other, Stanley, pretty much ignored her altogether except for those barbed opinions on the union—“Maybe if it hadn’t been so close to his induction like this—With all that trouble brewing in Parliament, he’ll have to mind where he hangs his hat—McEwan, eh? I’m surprised at Derek—Nothing against you, miss; you seem nice enough—He’ll do well to forget about that school altogether, move up and not look back—On another topic, how well do you cook, Miss McEwan?”
Finally Mr. Auric himself entered, a pale but distinguished man with a broad, muscular frame, and neatly waved, curly silver hair cropped short at the sides. He was handsome for his age, about fifty-five, and she coul
d definitely see where Derek had inherited his looks from. He wore a truly horrendous brown smoking jacket, however, with smart tweed trousers, and slippers.
His wife was a fragile, dark-haired woman who didn’t seem to have a care in the world. She appeared so gentle and inviting that Sonja couldn’t help but think of Derek.
Mrs. Auric shook Sonja’s hand, gave a warm, welcoming smile, and was already Sonja’s favourite person in the room. One of those people you enjoyed spending time with, even in silence—a mood setter and a mood changer, both for the better. Sonja’s first impression told her the couple complimented each other well, he being the steely hand of discipline, she the velvet glove. But which would reach out to Sonja today?
“Lovely to meet you, my dear. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” The gracious Mrs. Auric, exactly how Derek had described her.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“So have we. Very much.” Mrs. Auric glanced around at the eavesdroppers, while they pretended disinterest. She shook her head in disapproval. Clearly she didn’t want Sonja being subjected to such an ignorant audience on such an important occasion. Unfortunately, she didn’t articulate that in words. “You’re every bit as lovely as Derek has boasted. Such pale hair, like something out of a Russian fairytale. From your mother?”
“Yes, ma’am. And thank you for saying so.”
“I’m afraid Derek is rather tied up on the telephone. Won’t you sit down?”
The thought of sitting anywhere near the obnoxious brethren hogging the armchairs almost made her gag. “No thank you. I’m sure he won’t be a moment. And we’d very much like to speak to you both somewhere a little more...private, if possible?”
“Of course. That would be—”
“Nonsense. Hospitality in one room is as good as it is in any other.” Mr. Auric gazed in silence at the wooden monstrosity, perhaps waiting for Sonja to agree with him. She had no intention, not after such a rude remark. “Well, you can all play at Madame Tussaud’s if you like,” he added. “I’m in no fit state to stand around waiting. There, Stanley, make room, boy.”
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