Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact

by Alison Goodman

  ‘My lady.’ He opened the door. His expression did not change, but she caught something behind his well-trained visage. A new kind of respect.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, not only for the opened door.

  She squared her shoulders and stared into the room. No one was visible — just the opposite wall and its high-set window — but she could hear the murmur of voices. Inside was the real test of her transformation. Would Lord Carlston think she could pass as a man?

  Only one way to find out. With a deep breath, she strode into the salon.

  Since her last training session with Mr Hammond, the empty room had acquired a few pieces of furniture and a strong smell of waxy sandalwood. It had also acquired six people, all of whom turned and stared as she entered.

  Inevitably, she found Lord Carlston first. He stood with Lady Margaret by a table set along the back wall, arms crossed, his customary self-possession tensing into sudden surprise. She risked a glance at his face, locking for a breathless second into the hold of his eyes. Heat rose to her cheeks again, but this time it was not humiliation. He turned his head, breaking the moment, and she almost felt him step back behind his customary wall of cool evaluation.

  Hurriedly she shifted her attention to Lady Margaret. Her chaperone was clearly astounded by her transformation. Helen fought back an uncharitable Ha!

  Mr Hammond and Delia stood near the front windows, both with their mouths agape. Behind them, Quinn was in the process of shifting a mirror atop a dressing table. He paused, a pleased smile dawning on his tattooed face, then returned to his task.

  And in the corner, a small man with coiffed blond hair and a modish teal jacket regarded her with keen interest. Clearly the cove from London.

  ‘Lud, Helen,’ Delia exclaimed, breaking the stunned silence. ‘Everyone can see your legs! Your … hips!’

  Everyone’s gaze dropped downward. Helen clenched her hands by her sides, fixing her expression into rigid indifference.

  ‘Miss Cransdon,’ Lady Margaret said sharply, ‘I am sure it is hard enough for Lady Helen to find confidence in her disguise without you sabotaging the effort.’

  ‘I did not mean …’ Delia started. ‘It was just such a shock to see …’ She faltered and stopped.

  ‘It is all right,’ Helen said. ‘I must become used to being so … displayed.’

  ‘You have done well,’ his lordship said. He walked around her, still, she noted, at a safe distance. ‘Very well.’

  ‘It was not all my doing.’ Now he was standing a good five feet from her, but she felt his gaze upon her as if his hands were sliding across her body. The sensation made her blink; she must stop these vivid imaginings. ‘Darby makes a very good valet.’

  ‘Indeed, Quinn could not have tied a better cravat.’

  His sidelong glance held only cool approval; he had himself back under control. Helen could not claim the same. That disturbing pulse beneath her heartbeat had intensified, leaping out towards him.

  ‘I always knew you would make an excellent young man,’ Mr Hammond said, striding forward. He bowed to her, a silent message in his relieved grin: See, you can do it.

  Helen returned the bow, aware of his lordship crossing the room behind them. Her whole body felt attuned to him.

  ‘Lady Helen, allow me to introduce Mr Harrington,’ he said.

  Helen turned to meet the low bow of the blond stranger. ‘How do you do, sir.’

  The man’s whole attention seemed to be fixed upon the top of her head. ‘I am so very glad to see that you have thick hair, my lady. Much easier to work with.’

  Helen stared at him in bemusement. ‘Work with?’

  ‘Mr Harrington has come from London to cut your hair,’ his lordship said. ‘He is sworn to us so you need not monitor your conversation.’

  ‘Cut my hair?’ Helen’s hand went to her plait. When had this been decided? Her hair was her best feature. If she lost it, she would have nothing.

  ‘You cannot lose your hair,’ Delia said, as if she had heard Helen’s thought. ‘It is so pretty —’ She clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes on Lady Margaret.

  ‘Young men do not wear queues or wigs any more,’ Carlston said. ‘You cannot keep it at that length.’

  ‘But I will not be a young man all the time!’

  Helen looked around for support. Mr Hammond was pointedly studying the floor, and Delia had been subdued by a glare from Lady Margaret.

  ‘Allow me to reassure you, my lady,’ Mr Harrington said, bowing again. ‘I will crop your hair in such a manner as to suit both male and female guises. Then it is just a matter of dressing the hair with pomades and hairpieces.’

  ‘Crop?’ Helen repeated, her voice rising. She turned back to Carlston. ‘You did not say that I would have to cut off all of my hair! You said nothing about hair.’

  His lordship frowned. ‘I cannot see the problem. This is part of your Reclaimer duties, Lady Helen. It is no great sacrifice: hair grows back. It is nothing compared to other sacrifices that we are called upon to make.’

  ‘Caroline Lamb wears her hair cropped,’ Lady Margaret said, her tone rallying. ‘It is a much admired and copied style.’

  Helen stared at her wordlessly. It was no use citing Caroline Lamb; she was a slim dainty thing well suited to the elfin quality of her famous coiffure. Helen knew no one could ever call her elfin; not with her height and the lean, angular features and physique that were the hallmarks of a Reclaimer.

  ‘I will look awful.’ It was a weak objection, but it was the heart of the matter. She would look awful. In front of him.

  ‘Lady Helen, I am sorry, but you cannot afford a woman’s sensibilities in this matter or any other,’ his lordship said. ‘You must act as a Reclaimer and do your duty.’

  She drew in a steadying breath. So the haircut was another test of her commitment. Another gauge of her progress as a Reclaimer, which apparently was not fast enough. She could not refuse.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I see that it must be cut.’

  ‘Good.’ Lord Carlston signalled to Mr Harrington.

  ‘Please, come this way, my lady.’ The hairdresser gestured towards the dressing table.

  With as much composure as she could muster, Helen sat down in front of the mirror. She saw nothing left of the elated young man who had been reflected in her dressing room glass. Now there was just a young woman in a costume holding back ridiculous, vain tears. She glanced at his lordship, but he was giving instructions to Quinn. The decision had been made and that, apparently, was that.

  She clasped her hands tightly in her lap as Mr Harrington arranged a drape of cloth across her shoulders and picked up his shears. The first snip cut off her plait in one long hank.

  ‘For use in the hairpieces,’ Mr Harrington remarked as he set it aside.

  After that, her hair fell to the floor in a relentless rhythm of snip, snip, snip. All her softness carved away until only two inches of length was left upon her head.

  Hideous.

  ‘There,’ Mr Harrington said, combing back the layers. ‘Arranged thus, it can be dressed with hairpieces and adornments into a modish young lady’s style.’

  He paused, waiting for her response, but she could not even nod. Drawing a determined breath, he dipped his fingertips into a pot of pomade and quickly smoothed all her hair forward on a wave of thick sandalwood scent.

  ‘And like this, it is a man’s Brutus cut; or, if pushed to the side, even a short Windswept. Do you see how it changes?’

  He looked hopefully into Helen’s eyes in the mirror, but she had nothing to say.

  ‘Some false side whiskers will complete the picture,’ he added encouragingly. ‘They are easily affixed with thespian gum. I will have them, together with the curls and Grecian knot for your woman’s toilette, ready by tomorrow.’

  ‘It is very effective,’ Lady Margaret said.

  Helen turned to Delia. Her friend was not quite quick enough to hide the stricken pity in her face. Nor, it see
med, could she find anything to say, merely conjuring a bracing smile and vigorous nod.

  Helen smiled back. It must be worse than she thought.

  She gathered her courage and looked back at her reflection. All she could see were sharp-angled cheekbones, a square jaw, firm chin and a nose on the long side — no feminine softness. Not quite as hideous as she had feared — she made a bold-faced boy — but not pretty either.

  In the corner of the mirror’s reflection, she watched his lordship. He was studying her with such an odd expression. Did he think her ugly now? Unwomanly? Or was he relieved to see this stripping of her femininity?

  She chewed the inside of her mouth. Yes, it was probably a relief for him. A female Reclaimer brought too many complications that were his duty to solve. And of course there was the extra problem of the base attraction that leaped between them that even he could not fully quell. There, she had named it for what it was: base attraction. What else could it be, so anchored in the response of her body to his? She was just another fool caught in the thrall of his handsome features and physique. She must overcome it. He was still married and such attraction was against the laws of God.

  ‘It is a most artful cut, Harrington,’ his lordship said. ‘A successful transformation.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Mr Hammond said. ‘In fact, so successful, I think Lady Helen is ready to start her field training.’

  That drew her attention from her shame. ‘Field training?’ she queried, trying to catch his eye: What are you doing?

  Ignoring her alarm, he turned to Carlston. ‘I propose a trip to a tavern. Lady Helen needs practice as a young man, and if Harrington has those side pieces finished by tomorrow night,’ he raised a questioning brow at the hairdresser, who bowed his compliance, ‘I think we should go into Lewes.’

  Lud, he was bringing their expedition into the open. Helen forced an expression of enthusiasm. He should have told her he was going to do such a thing; she was the Reclaimer, after all. Not to mention the risk he was taking. What if his lordship said no, she was not ready? Yet beyond her own hesitancy, she could see the sense in it: they could meet Lowry under the guise of the training trip. No secret excursion to try to keep from the household — something that would be difficult, if not impossible.

  Lady Margaret frowned at her brother. ‘For goodness’ sake, Michael, do not rush her so. She needs —’

  Carlston held up his hand, stopping her protest. She obeyed, but Helen saw her eyes flash.

  ‘Why Lewes?’ his lordship asked.

  ‘The place is not fashionable. There will be almost no chance of meeting someone we know,’ Mr Hammond said. ‘She can practise with impunity.’

  ‘What do you say, Lady Helen?’ Lord Carlston asked. ‘Do you feel ready to go out into the world as a young man?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ she said. Even to her ears, she sounded confident. ‘The sooner the better.’

  Lord Carlston tilted his head, considering. ‘Tomorrow night you say, Hammond?’

  ‘A Tuesday evening will be lively enough but not too unruly.’

  ‘True. And I am not otherwise engaged.’

  ‘You are, of course, very welcome to accompany us,’ Mr Hammond said politely, but his true reply was deep in his steady gaze: For her sake, do not come.

  Helen frowned. What did he mean, for her sake?

  She saw his lordship’s eyes narrow at the silent message, then cut to her in consternation: had she seen it too? It was no use trying to hide the fact that she had, and on a rush of hot shame came the knowledge of Mr Hammond’s meaning. He knew about the energy between herself and Lord Carlston. Not only that, he had seen its effect upon her mind and body. Most likely on his lordship’s mind and body too. Dear God, was it obvious to everyone?

  The same thought had patently crossed his lordship’s mind, for he closed his eyes for an appalled moment.

  ‘No, I will not go this time,’ he said to Mr Hammond, his voice clipped. ‘The two of you go alone, but keep this visit brief.’

  ‘A drink in a tavern and then we will return,’ Mr Hammond said, a note of apology in his voice.

  ‘It is settled then,’ his lordship said. He walked to the doors, and Geoffrey opened them with a bow.

  ‘Lord Carlston?’ Lady Margaret called. ‘I thought we were to review Lady Helen’s alchemy knowledge this morning?’

  He turned back, his hand clenched at his side as he bowed. ‘You are quite right, but if you will excuse me, I must attend to other business.’ He directed a cold glance at Mr Hammond; the apology, it seemed, was not accepted. ‘Use the time to prepare Lady Helen for her excursion tomorrow.’

  He bowed to Lady Margaret again, then strode from the salon, Geoffrey closing the doors behind him.

  The room was silent.

  ‘Is something amiss about your trip to Lewes?’ Delia asked Helen. ‘His lordship seems displeased.’

  ‘You are mistaken,’ Helen said flatly. She aimed her own cold glance at Mr Hammond. ‘Lord Carlston is not displeased.’

  She turned back to the mirror. Beneath her heartbeat she could still feel the other persistent pulse — that unbidden attunement to him. She dug her fingers into her new-waxed crop, driven by a sudden fierce impulse to push it back to how it had been before. But her hair was gone; she could not go back.

  Slowly she lowered her hands, averting her eyes from the shorn, wretched girl in the mirror.

  Chapter Seven

  TUESDAY, 7 JULY 1812

  Even at dusk on a Tuesday evening, there were still a number of carriages on the road into Lewes. Mr Hammond had neatly steered their gig past a stately landau, a post-chaise and a sleek phaeton, but their quick progress came to an end as they drew up behind a farm dray, its wide berth and ambling progress forcing the chestnut to drop into a slow walk.

  ‘What is the time?’ Mr Hammond asked, glaring at the broad back of the farmer. ‘Lowry said to meet him at nine.’

  Helen dug her fingers into the leather-lined fob pocket of her breeches and pulled out her touch watch. She squinted at the diamond arrow set in the centre of the enamelled case, but with no carriage lamps lit and only a sliver of rising moon she could not make out the time. Still, that was the advantage of owning a touch watch. She drew her forefinger down the diamond arrow and slowly felt her way along the line of gems to the head. It pointed between the eighth and ninth emeralds set around the edge.

  ‘Close on half past eight,’ she said, and returned the watch to her pocket. The weight of it against her hip was a comfort, as was the hidden Iceland spar lens inside. She would make sure to check the tavern with it before they entered. They were not there to chase out Deceivers, but it was always best to know if any were present.

  ‘We are no more than ten minutes from the inn,’ Mr Hammond said. ‘We should be well in time.’

  Helen sounded her agreement, but her attention was on the castle silhouetted on the hill to the left of the town. She had read about it in her guidebook: built in the eleventh century, and now a ruin of only two round towers and a gatehouse. Even so, it held a certain Gothic majesty, especially in the nominal moonlight. She was not one for omens, but the sight of it standing over the town seemed portentous.

  She rubbed her hands along the soft buckskin on her thighs, trying to dry the dampness of her palms and quell the nervous jump of her leg. Lowry had almost the same strength as she did and knew how to disable a Reclaimer. She could think of no reason for him to attack — he wanted to sell the journal, after all — yet she had to be ready for all eventualities.

  ‘Thank the Lord,’ he said as the dray made a ponderous turn into a side road. ‘We could have made better time on foot.’

  Helen glanced at him, surprised by the heat in his words. She was not the only nervous one. The thought was even more unsettling.

  He urged the chestnut into a trot and they were soon in the middle of the town, passing a neat post office, McLee’s Circulating Library and the White Hart Inn, a handsome Tudor posting house. He
len caught sight of a fine blue bonnet in a milliner’s window, and then they were climbing School Hill and crossing a narrow bridge in a hollow thud of hooves and grind of wheels. The River Ouse, Helen remembered, as she peered down at the dark water beneath them. Then Mr Hammond called, ‘Hold on!’ and she grabbed the edge of the gig as they swung into a right turn, drove under a low archway and came to a clattering halt in the cobblestoned yard of the Bear Inn.

  Three men in shirtsleeves and faded westkits — river-men by their bare feet and muddied breeches— sat on blocks of stone near the tavern door watching their arrival.

  Mr Hammond gathered the reins into one hand and said loudly, ‘I told you I’d get you here in under an hour, Amberley. Do you concede I am the better driver?’

  The masquerade was on. Helen, in her guise as Charles Amberley, young buck about town, drew back her shoulders and climbed down from the gig, making a show of looking around. The yard was enclosed by a double-storey tavern, a long wing of rooms for travellers, and a ramshackle assortment of outbuildings.

  ‘I concede I owe you a bottle of claret, Hammond.’ She was pleased with the pitch of her voice: a good, manly tenor. It had been a hard road over the past weeks to modulate her feminine tones, but Lady Margaret’s coaching had been most effective. ‘That is if we ever get a boy to take the horse,’ she added.

  The snide comment was designed to carry, and a few moments later a shifty-eyed ostler appeared from the dingy stable. Hammond tossed him a coin, gave a few brief instructions for the mare’s tenancy, then made his way towards the tavern.

  Helen followed, glancing over her shoulder as the ostler led the mare and gig to a stall. It was clear from the tavern’s shabby exterior and the lounging river-men at the door that the Bear had lost the war for genteel custom to the more centrally located White Hart.

  Helen pulled out her touch watch again as they passed the men and strode through the doorway. Better to be busy with a timepiece than try to outstare so much masculinity. Maintaining a bold gaze was one of the hardest parts of the masquerade.

  ‘Hold a moment,’ she said softly in the dim foyer. Only one sputtering candle in a dirty lamp lit the cramped, smoky area, the dull light catching the rich green enamel of the watch case, making it ripple. Ahead, the sound of male voices and shrill female laughter thrummed from the taproom. ‘Let me check for Deceivers.’