Defy or Defend

by Gail Carriger

  With her friends, perhaps. Sophronia and Sidheag when they had an opportunity to gather, or Agatha when she was in town. With them she could be herself. With them she even confessed to her secret desires – a house in the country, a husband, children. They thought her frivolous, but at least they did not mock. But seeing her true friends was rare enough an occurrence that Dimity wondered if she was losing track of herself. If she’d become, over the years, nothing more than the Honey Bee – effective, shining, and shallow.

  It was a pickle. For if her wiles did work on Sir Crispin, she would not trust him so much. For he then would have been taken in by the Honey Bee, not Dimity. And she would never know if he really liked her. But her wiles were all she knew of relating to a man. How was she to seduce him without them?

  So now, they had this awkward dance, where she carefully let down her guard and did not flirt at all. And he’d brushed her hair as if he treasured the task, and curved his arm about her after he thought she’d fallen asleep. She found herself thinking when she awoke still cuddled against him, his fingers tentatively laced with hers, and the afternoon sun making pink of her eyelids, that this was the good bit. That this might be all she really wanted. Just him, and a sun she rarely saw, and something warm coiling between them.

  But he was so careful to get out of bed without waking her, as if afraid of what she might do and how he might react. As if afraid of her. Which hurt a bit. So she kept her eyes shut until she heard him leave the room to head out to the local bakery and fetch them a meal.

  Dimity dressed in moss green, a favorite older dress suited to an artist, with a fern pattern and a charming little matched belt. Since it had a relatively high collar and a complex pattern, she went with bold drop earrings, massive square emeralds. Paste, of course – all of Dimity’s jewelry was paste. Real wasn’t the point as far as she was concerned. With the Honey Bee in action, real was never the point. Sometimes, in fact, the point was the point – her jewelry could get very sharp.

  As she descended the stairs in the early afternoon she knew she made a picture, a fresh brightness in the rundown gloom of Budgy Hall. She found Sir Crispin dealing with a crowd of tradesfolk at the hive house door. The mess of activity in the entranceway paused to watch her graceful arrival.

  Sir Crispin said proudly, “My wife, Mrs Carefull. She’s really in charge, of course. How are you today, my lovely general?”

  “Topping, darling husband. Good afternoon, everyone, have you all learned your duties?”

  A chorus of agreement and nods met her question. There were chimney sweeps, and paper strippers, white washers, laundresses, and seamstresses in abundance.

  Dimity gave them her very best smile. Most of the gentlemen and one of the ladies sighed in admiration. She memorized their faces, of course.

  “I shall be in the sitting room, painting, if you need to consult me on anything. Please do not hesitate to interrupt. Like most artists, I dearly love an interruption. As my husband has no doubt told you, the other residents of the house are of the fashionable set. They keep London hours, and are not to be disturbed. When they do deign to come downstairs, please don’t take anything they say to heart. Just come find me if something wants sorting.” She was not worried that they might realize the residents were vampires – after all, anyone who was anyone kept London hours. It wouldn’t do to be out before sunset – one might get tan.

  Tradespeople, of course, understood the eccentricities of the upper classes. More nods met her remarks.

  Dimity smiled at them, pleased. “Very well, then, to work with us all.”

  She turned to find the three parlormaids waiting patiently in the drawing room. She wondered how long they had been there and immediately put them on an afternoon rotation forthwith – instructing them to arrive midday and stay until just after supper. Unlike the tradesfolk, who were temporary, staff needed to become slowly accustomed to the members of the hive. Smart staff under regular exposure would eventually realize that they were surrounded by vampires, but hopefully by then a certain amount of loyalty and tolerance would have built up. They might even become interested in increasing their income with drone status. The three girls seemed bright, eager, and sensible – excellent candidates, in Dimity’s limited experience.

  She set them to cleaning and preparing the kitchen and back rooms, in the hopes that more staff might be forthcoming. Then she arranged her easel in the sitting room so that it was visible from the hallway, and began to paint.

  Cris ran several more errands for Dimity in his guise as longsuffering husband, retrieved an extensive spread to feed the masses come suppertime, and returned home a good hour before sunset. He found the house humming with useful activity and Dimity in full artist persona artistically flourishing a brush at what appeared to be a bilious interpretation of a frolicking cow. He hid a broad grin – her artistic skills were indeed rather poor – and asked the parlormaids to arrange the food in the dining room.

  Then, screwing his courage to the sticking point, he went up to their room and donned his dancing attire. This took every ounce of willpower he had. The outfit had been provided to him, with great amusement, by Bertie. The impossible fellow seemed to feel that a man who did ballet must perforce wear a combination of bathing costume and strong man circus attire. It was blue and white striped and indecently tight.

  But he and Sparkles must make an artistic impression on the vampires, and if that required stripes, Sir Crispin would do his duty to his country and wear stripes.

  He returned downstairs, wearing a dressing robe over said stripes, to find that Sparkles had left the cow to dry, and was dabbing at a smaller sheet featuring an insipid landscape, perhaps Devonshire, with a huge portly floating insect of some kind in the gray sky.

  “Is that a caterpillar?” Cris inquired, curious.

  Dimity tilted her head. “No, a dirigible. Or it will be in a bit.”

  “Looks like a caterpillar.”

  Dimity smiled at him. “I know. I’m really very bad.”

  “I like your frolicking cow.”

  “Dog! Please.”

  “Oh, is it?”

  “Clearly that is a hound on the hunt. It’s my commentary on the false joy of the class system, which is, in fact, nested in repression of the working folk and compounded by the everyman search for meaning in this cold, desolate world.”

  “Oh,” said Crispin.

  “I shall title it, of course, The Frolicking Cow. What are you wearing, husband?”

  “My robe, of course. I’m going to practice.”

  She twinkled at him. “Of course you are. I shall return to my floating caterpillar, shall I?”

  “By all means. It’s nearly sunset. We must put on a good show.”

  “Frolicking cows notwithstanding.”

  He left her to it. First, he opened up the huge double doors between the sitting room, where she sat painting, and the drawing room, which was a larger space, less cluttered now the maids had finished with it. Then, he pushed back the furniture, but this did not give him nearly enough space. Fortunately, the reupholsterer arrived and took most of the chairs and couches away. That helped considerably.

  The rugs were removed by some dustmen. Dimity said she’d simply gone ahead and ordered all new ones from London, which left Cris with a nice wide bare floor. It was dusty, even after the parlormaids swept it, and warped by age and ill maintenance. Also, it boasted rather too many dark stains for his liking, because they made him think of vampires and blood, but it was good enough to be going on with.

  He threw off his robe to giggles from one of the maids and a tiny gasp from Dimity. He glared at the maid, who scuttled away quickly, making him feel like a shabby gentleman. When he turned to Dimity she was back at her painting, a little color in her cheeks. Probably embarrassed by his poor manners.

  “I’m going to stretch now, wife,” he warned her.

  “Are you indeed, husband?” she responded, oddly breathless. �
�Are you certain that outfit will accommodate such a trial? It’s rather tight.”

  “Apparently it’s made for just such an endeavor.”

  “Praise be to the heavens,” murmured Dimity.

  Crispin took that as sarcasm. “I shall now be the frolicking cow.”

  Dimity looked him over, hazel eyes eager and shy. “My dear husband, there is nothing at all bovine about you. Please do carry on.” He would have thought this a trained manoeuvre except she was also crimson faced. Clearly she wanted to stare at certain parts of his anatomy. His Sparkles was demonstrating equal parts embarrassment and arousal.

  She licked her lips, unconsciously, he was certain. “Frolic away, darling, do.” Her voice had gone a little hoarse.

  Cris concentrated hard on the absurdity of his striped costume in order to suppress his body’s natural response to her desire while simultaneously blessing the tan complexion that hid his own fierce blush. Then he turned away and focused on putting on a good showing.

  Cris remembered some of his old stretches, and he combined those with the ones he used before fencing. He admitted to losing himself a bit in the moment, even without music, even knowing she was casting little glances his way. Thus, he didn’t really notice when the sun set and the gas came on.

  When he surfaced from a series of deep lunges, most of the day laborers seemed to have departed, but a good many of the more dedicated tradesfolk remained. He was ashamed that he’d lost track of time so thoroughly.

  Dimity rose and stretched herself, or as much as she might in stays and tight sleeves. She now had a small arrangement of paintings strewn about to dry and an artfully applied smudge of blue paint on her chin. She also seemed to have her blushes under control, although her gaze on him now was almost possessive.

  “Shall I play for you?” She pointed to the Broadwood upright piano in the corner.

  “You play?”

  “Not very well and only about six things. And I’m sure that’s out of tune. But they’ll be awake soon and coming down. It’d be good for them to find us occupied in boldly artistic pursuits.”

  “If you insist,” he said, feeling ever more embarrassed.

  She sat and plonked out a small light piece of Austrian extraction, and he did a few experimental spins and a leap or two. He swept his hands about, remembering to curve his arms, and generally tried to behave like a complete idiot.

  When the piece ended, sarcastic clapping met his final pose.

  Cinjin Theris, the actor drone chappy, leaned against the doorjamb and glared at him. “You’re better than I thought you’d be. Why come up to Nottingham at all, when you could clearly take the stage in London?”

  “Is that what you desire, Mr Theris – a London debut?” Dimity rose to intercept the drone.

  Cris pretended to be very concerned about the line of his foot, and did a set of point and flex in all five positions while listening intently.

  “Doesn’t every actor? Or dancer, for that matter.”

  Dimity tittered at him. “My husband is talented, my dear sir, but sadly lacks ambition.”

  “How very wearing that must be.”

  She took his arm gently and led him from the room, chatting amiably. Cris began moving what little furniture was left back into some semblance of order. Doing a little twist here and a leg lift there, making a performance out of it.

  “Oh!” said a breathy voice from the hallway. “Look at you! I do so adore muscular men.”

  Cris paused to smile at the vampire. “Have you one of your own?”

  Justice floated into the room. “My dear Gantry, the light of my life, has just such a form, so powerful. I can see now that you really are a dancer. I was one myself, did you know? Before I took the bite, of course. Ah, before...” He floated one arm up into the air. “Still graceful, although that’s my vampire nature now, not my once plentiful creative talent. And it is so hard to force myself to move slowly, languidly, when my nature is quick and deadly. I can dance, of course, but only the learned steps, nothing inspired or original. So sad. A great loss to the adoring public, I’m sure.”

  Then he whirled and drifted away.

  Cris stared at his retreating back with the sensation of exasperation he was beginning to associate with most vampires, and then he started and stared even harder.

  Is that—? Is he wearing Dimity’s muslin nightgown?

  Cris trotted after the vampire into the entranceway and watched as Justice opened the door and drifted out into the night. That was definitely Dimity’s peignoir billowing around him, swamping his small frame and trailing dramatically on the cobblestones of the street.

  The vampire left the front door wide open behind him.

  After a brief moment’s consideration, because he was still in what amounted to a swimming costume, Cris threw on his greatcoat, buttoned it closed, pulled on his boots, and dashed after the nightgown-clad vampire, out into the city.

  Dimity would understand. Or at least, he hoped she would. Plus, she would no doubt want her nightgown back in one piece.

  Dimity distracted Mr Theris with chatter for a while, then said she had to put away her paints and returned to discover that Sir Crispin had gone off somewhere, presumably following some important mission-related clue or other. Dimity hoped he’d managed to change his outfit or he would cut quite the spectacle, waltzing about in striped sportswear like a chump – nice legs notwithstanding. Not to mention his other manifold endowments.

  She couldn’t give his endowments too much thought, however, because she encountered and then became busy arguing with Lord Finbar. The vampire seemed to take great personal offense to the fact that while he’d been asleep, she’d commenced a redecoration of his entire house. Silly fellow. It would be so much better.

  “I left your private rooms alone, didn’t I?” Dimity smiled at him.

  He glowered. “I asked you explicitly not to intrude upon my vast melancholy.”

  “How is this an intrusion? A little light dusting. The wallpaper needed to go anyway. It’s only very minor things.”

  “But my melancholy.”

  “There were cobwebs, Lord Finbar. Cobwebs. Which, I’m bound to say, are not at all melancholic, rather, more unsanitary.” She paused, but he had nothing to say to that. “Good. Now, have you met the new parlormaid, Rosie? Rosie, this is the lord and master of this domicile, Lord Finbar.”

  “Good evening, m’lord.”

  Rosie had proved herself to be, on very short acquaintance, a hardworking and practical young lady who knew which side her bread was buttered on. She would, without question, take to the fang if pecuniary advancement and steak-and-kidney pie lay at the other end of those points. Some might consider it a bit too soon to open up about the hive, but Lord Finbar clearly needed some level of practical adoration and Rosie was rather eager to please. She’d make an excellent drone, even if she wasn’t in it for the immortality. The best drones often weren’t, or so Dimity had heard.

  Thus Dimity felt perfectly solid in saying, “You’re a good girl, Rosie, and I think you’ll do very well with Lord Finbar here. He’s a vampire, you know?”

  Rosie evaluated the oily hair and drooping velvet jacket with thoughtful brown eyes. “A real live vampire, ma’am? I’m honored.”

  Lord Finbar mooched in a fallen angel kind of way.

  “Best we keep that between us,” said Dimity.

  Rosie nodded, eyes big. They softened at the sight of Lord Finbar. “I won’t say nothing to no one, promise.”

  He glowered at her hopefully.

  Dimity leaned forwards conspiratorially, implying that this next bit of information was even more exciting. “He is also a noted poet.”

  “Oh, my stars! A real poet? Never thought to meet one of those in my lifetime.” She smiled at Lord Finbar, who looked a little pleased, but still droopy.

  To Dimity, Rosie said, “Your vampire wants looking after, methinks.”

  Dimity winked a
t the girl. “I knew I could rely on your discretion. You’re topping, Rosie dear. Now, Lord Finbar, don’t frown so. Rosie will be working in the study this evening, giving everything there a good clean. You know what she’d like more than anything, I believe?”

  Lord Finbar glowered at her. “What would she like, then?”

  “For you to read her some Byron. Have you ever heard of Byron, Rosie?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, there then, you see? You’re exactly the right age for Byron. He had me all aflutter at your age. And if Lord Finbar reads very well and you like him enough, perhaps a snack for the nice, sad vampire. But only if you really don’t mind.”

  Dimity whirled on Lord Finbar and made her tone fierce. “Only if she really doesn’t mind, Lord Finbar.”

  Lord Finbar looked both aghast and almost excited. “Of course! What do you take me for?”

  Since it was patently obvious he was a vampire and would prefer it believed that he was not to be trusted with anyone as nice as Rosie, Dimity only shook her head at him. “Behave, Lord Finbar. Perhaps do not burden Rosie with your original works, not right away. They might be too tempting for such an innocent lass. Definitely start with Byron. Speaking of which, did you know my brother is one of the leading translators of Catullus? Have you ever read Catullus, Lord Finbar? I think you might enjoy him. And I’m sure Rosie would.”

  But the vampire and the parlormaid had drifted away together, towards the study.

  Dimity looked up to find Lord Kirby glowering at her from behind a curtain of silver hair. “What are you up to, Mrs Carefull?”

  “Oh Lord Kirby, there you are! How delightful. I’ve precisely the thing for you to help me with.”

  “Help? Help!”

  Something caught her eye. “Oh, pardon me just one moment.”

  Dimity trotted into the drawing room. “Mr Theris! You leave Miss Shortface alone! She has work to do. No, not Mr Headicar either! Really, Mr Theris, don’t you have acting to do? Go learn some lines and stop seducing the tradesfolk. Honestly. They’ve actual responsibilities. These walls aren’t going to repaper themselves.”