Imprudence

by Gail Carriger

  “Three hours, gentlemen.” Rue left the men to grumble about females with unreasonable expectations.

  “Chérie?” Quesnel’s face was contorted with concern. “Are you well?” His hand jerked forward and then fell to his side, empty.

  Rue didn’t want pity from him; besides, she had purpose now. She concentrated on the impending trip almost desperately. “How soon can we boil up for takeoff?”

  Quesnel snapped into engineer mode. “Less than an hour. We only need basic maintenance down below. We’ve been running at full capacity for a week.”

  “And my father?”

  “Very well preserved.”

  Rue winced, but stopped any other reaction. “Excellent. Soon as I’ve conferred with Percy, I’ll call down with a time for float off. No need to stoke up until we know the specifics.”

  Quesnel nodded but didn’t go anywhere.

  Awkward silence descended.

  Rue scanned her craft. The deck was crawling with people, all busy about repairs or preparations.

  He shifted close, intimate, as if he wanted to grab her.

  Then Primrose reappeared in her cloak and hat, bade them farewell, trotted down the gangplank, and headed in the direction of the hive house and her mother’s carriage. Percy followed her as far as the deck, wearing a dressing gown draped over a shirt and trousers, and no hat. His hair was a wild spiky mess of ginger and his spectacles were askew. Virgil must not yet be awake.

  Footnote trailed after. Tasherit having gone to sleep with the sunrise, he was free to roam the whole ship at will.

  “Tiddles said you wanted me?” Percy was annoyed enough to employ his sister’s hated pet name.

  Rue looked him over. “We’re headed to Egypt on the next available current. You’ll need to plot a course.”

  “What? Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  “But I haven’t slept yet.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  Percy stuck a thumb in Quesnel’s direction. “His.”

  Rue was bound and determined to stopper that over before it could get started again. “Don’t you dare. Charts, Percival. Now!”

  Percy snorted and looked down at Footnote.

  “You see what I put up with?” Footnote licked a paw. “No respect. You realise I am one of the most brilliant minds in all England and she orders me to make charts.”

  True Percy was smart, but since he seemed oh so aware of that fact, Rue wasn’t in the mood to humour one of his snits. Of course, he might think he was being funny; difficult to tell with Percy.

  Percy continued babbling at the cat. “How trying it is to be constantly catering to lesser intellects. Not you, obviously.”

  Footnote stopped washing and stared at his master as if he had never considered the matter and was now moved to deep contemplation.

  “Percy,” rumbled Rue in a threatening tone.

  “I’d like to see you build, install and maintain a working preservation tank.” Quesnel couldn’t help but defend his own intellect.

  “And I’d like to see you write a proper paper on a new species of supernatural examining all the theoretical implications and ramifications of the aetheric imprint on the vital humours. Rather than superficial waffle. Seems we’re both doomed to disappointment.” Percy left off the cat for more aggressive intercourse.

  Uh-oh, thought Rue, here we go again. She was exhausted and really had, she felt, put up with a lot. Rue was like her Paw in that her default reaction when unhappy was rage.

  She yelled, quite violently, and at the top of her lungs. “Enough!”

  It was so loud it paused the workers on the main deck. Spoo’s small face popped up from behind a pile of rope. Rue was a jolly commander, but not exactly awe-inspiring at the best of times. Clearly she had a pair of lungs on her and the fact that, until now, she had rarely used them seemed to make them all that more effective.

  With a pointed gesture, Rue made it clear she was yelling at her compatriots and not her crew. The crew went back to work, although Spoo remained watching, wide-eyed. The thought of the young girl – who was really Rue’s charge as much as her employee – acted as the discipline Rue needed.

  Percy and Quesnel had both snapped their mouths shut and were staring at her.

  Rue opted for a low fierce diatribe. “Enough, both of you. I don’t care who is in the right or who is in the wrong and frankly neither does anyone else. Come to an agreement or stop talking to each other. At this point, either is acceptable. Percy, you are behaving like a petulant child whose favourite toy has gone missing. If you wanted credit for the discovery so badly you ought to have written and sent the paper in for publication while we were still in India. They had a perfectly decent aethographic transmitter.”

  Percy was sputtering.

  Quesnel was nodding smugly.

  Rue rounded on the inventor. “Mr Lefoux, don’t you dare think you’re not culpable. You know Percy well enough to predict how he might react. The fact that you didn’t include him in the authorship is an outright insult. I might even accuse you of intentionally stirring up malcontent.”

  Quesnel started to protest.

  Rue overrode him. “If it wasn’t intentional, it was certainly small-minded.”

  At which Percy started looking smug and Quesnel crestfallen.

  So Rue switched again. “Don’t you dare look pleased with yourself, Percival Tunstell. The only reason you aren’t a complete disappointment is because I’ve never expected you to actually rise to any given occasion.”

  Percy winced.

  That might be taking things a bit too far, but it seemed once her mouth started flapping it was not inclined to stop.

  “And, Mr Lefoux, let’s be perfectly clear on that other matter, while we are at it.”

  Percy tried not to look interested.

  Quesnel tried not to look apprehensive.

  “Let us say, for the sake of argument, you didn’t know how your article would affect your colleague aboard my airship. In that case you are not petty but thoughtless. Imagine how that insight into your character affects my opinion of you? What other relationships are you likely to be thoughtless about? Especially considering you didn’t see fit to tell me any of this. Not your publication, not your travel plans, not even the fact that you knew” – she took a breath to steady her voice, which was inexplicably trembling – “you knew something was wrong with my father and you didn’t tell me that either!”

  Rue had no idea why she was unleashing upon poor Quesnel. Nor why the bulk of her ire had switched to the inventor when really both he and Percy were blameworthy. She was trembling with agitation. Quesnel was pale and miserable.

  It was Percy who risked putting a hand to her arm. “Stop, Rue. Just stop.”

  Rue subsided like a hot air balloon deflating.

  Quesnel said in a tight, rough voice, “I’ll just go and make certain the boilers are in order. You’ll let me know the course hops once they are charted, Mr Tunstell?”

  “Certainly, Mr Lefoux,” replied Percy quietly. And then to Rue, “I’ll go and see what seems the best course.”

  “You do that.” Rue sagged into one of the deck chairs, feeling thoroughly ashamed of herself. She had probably destroyed any possible French lessons with Quesnel; even his casual kisses would be gone now. She wished Primrose had been there because she would have smoothed it all over. No, thought Rue, this is my mess.

  “Spoo?”

  “Yes, Lady Captain?” Spoo bounced up to her with less enthusiasm than usual. She looked almost frightened.

  Rue felt even guiltier.

  “I’ll be in my quarters. Will you muster me once Navigator Tunstell has the charts in order?”

  Spoo looked relieved. “Certainly, Lady Captain.”

  Rue resurfaced at Spoo’s knock a few hours later with spirits somewhat rallied. She’d always wanted to see Egypt. It was a matter of some intellectual debate as to how a metanatural would react to the God-Breaker Plague. Now she was
going to find out. Of course, she had visited before, but she had been too young to remember. Her mother said she handled the plague fine, but everything had felt different when she was young. Shifting into werewolf form hadn’t hurt, among other things.

  On deck, Rue found Primrose had returned and was in conference with her twin under the big parasol that stretched over the navigation area.

  “Oh, Rue, good, there you are.”

  “Everything go well with the supplies?”

  “Yes. And I found a nice young French girl to handle that other matter we discussed.”

  “Excellent. Percy?”

  “You aren’t going to yell at me again, are you?”

  Primrose perked up. “Rue yelled at you? Spiffing. I’m sure you richly deserved it.”

  “I probably did.” Percy looked more than ordinarily morose. “But she wasn’t very nice. To me or poor Mr Lefoux.”

  “Poor Mr Lefoux, is it? Suddenly you’re all over chummy?” Primrose was not to be taken in by her twin being pathetic.

  “More a solidarity in misery. I’m certain I shall return to loathing him shortly.”

  Rue was feeling guilty. “While I stand by my opinion of your behaviour, Percy, I might have couched it in somewhat kinder terms. For that, I apologise.”

  Percy had many faults, but bitterness wasn’t one of them. “Apology accepted. Now here’s our course.” He laid out the charts and pointed to the various swirling currents.

  “Have you informed Quesnel?”

  “I have.”

  “Without getting into a fight?”

  “I suspect that he, too, is smarting from your… uh… lecture.”

  Rue turned to Primrose. “Are the staff and supplies in order?”

  “Just waiting on a few final necessities but we should be ready by sundown.”

  “Are we missing anyone?”

  “Virgil,” said Percy promptly. “I sent him after the latest Royal Society Bulletin. I have a subscription but they cannot seem to find the ship to deliver it. I’m waiting on a very important article.” He sounded suspiciously smug.

  “Why on earth did you give them the address of a dirigible?” Prim rolled her eyes.

  “This is where I keep my stuff. Books, beverages, boots, and so forth.”

  “It’s a dirigible, you wiffin. It moves!” Primrose was ever exasperated by her brother’s obtuse belief that the world ought to conform to his whims, rather than the other way around.

  He sniffed. “Regardless, I sent Virgil off to collect a copy. I wish to have the latest in hand before float off. There have been several pamphlets warning of the hazards of reading during air travel. The evidence is sadly compelling. I’m quite distressed. I’m considering abstaining from partaking while we are in transit. So I want to read this pamphlet before we leave.”

  Rue and Primrose both stared at him, mouths agape.

  Primrose put a hand to her cheek. “Not read while we travel? But you’ll die!”

  Percy always had a book open, even during mealtimes. The very idea of him abstaining for more than ten minutes was apocryphal.

  Percy glared. “I assure you, I have plenty of self-restraint.”

  Rue had no more time for his eccentricities. “I shall believe it when I see it. I hope Virgil returns before we are scheduled to depart.” Not only did she like the little chap, but he also seemed the only one able to tolerate Percy for any length of time. And if Percy wasn’t going to read, well, all Virgil’s resources would be required.

  “We’ll have to delay.”

  Primrose shook her head. “For your valet? Brother dear, that’s hardly a good reason.”

  “No, for the pamphlet. Didn’t I just tell you how important it was?”

  “What’s so important about it?”

  “Never you mind.”

  This looked to be deteriorating into sibling bickering, so Rue interjected. “Now, Prim, should we have tea?”

  Primrose left off the bicker with alacrity. “Jolly good notion. Shall we take it in the stateroom?”

  “My quarters, I think.”

  “Ah, that bad, is it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Abandoning Percy abovedecks, the two young ladies went below together.

  SEVEN

  In Which a Voyage Is Afloat

  Rue filled Primrose in on everything, from her father’s deteriorating condition, to her suspicion that Quesnel had known and her lashing out at him. She told Prim about her fear for her parents and about Dama’s revelations.

  Primrose listened patiently, making sympathetic murmurs in all the right places. She held Rue’s hand, squeezing it during the dramatic bits.

  “Oh, I say!” was her devout utterance when Rue finished. “And I thought my news was something exciting.”

  “Your news? And here I am babbling about my problems.” Rue was arrested. “What news?”

  Prim extracted her hand and drew off her gloves. A very expensive-looking ring graced her left hand.

  “You’re engaged!” squeaked Rue.

  “To the finest gentleman I ever saw. Such nice legs.” Primrose did seem sincere about it.

  “Um, to which one, exactly?”

  “Lieutenant Plonks.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know, but that is his only real drawback. Can you imagine me as a Mrs Norman Plonks? It hardly bears repeating. But he is handsome, and respectable, and Queen Mums will adore him. She’s been encouraging me to get married. I’m almost past my prime.”

  Rue tried not to let her disapproval show. Primrose was always so supportive. Rue owed her enthusiasm. But Prim had no real model of married life, since her father had died tragically when she was young. Rue had only heard it spoken of in hushed tones. A theatre actor of considerable repute, Mr Tunstell had taken a deep breath before Dionysus’s famous soliloquy to the dancing Minotaurs, inhaled a pickled grape, and perished onstage to resounding applause for a most realistic portrayal. “It’s how he would have wished to go,” was all Lady Maccon ever said at Rue’s prodding, “wearing a loincloth in front of a cheering crowd.”

  As a direct result, Primrose had never got over her fear of pickled grapes and she’d no practical example of what love was like. Aunt Ivy lamented her loss with no less a commitment than Queen Victoria did Albert, although Ivy returned to colour after the appropriate period of mourning. Nothing, not even the death of a beloved spouse, could make Ivy Tunstell eschew colourful hats for very long. But she refused to talk of her husband, enmeshed in the tragedy of his loss.

  Rue was as sympathetic as she could be to the fact that Primrose was suckering herself for life to some minor officer because she thought that was the proper thing. This Plonks would have no idea what a prize he’d garnered and would likely squirrel Prim away with utter disregard for her organisational talents and interest in adventure. Besides which, Rue was tolerably certain that Primrose’s real affections lay elsewhere.

  She prodded. “And what about Tasherit?”

  Prim went still. “What about her?”

  “Have you told her of your engagement?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Ah.”

  “What do you mean by ‘ah’?”

  “I’m thinking she might not be overly happy about it.”

  “Really, Rue, why should a werelioness care what I do with my future?”

  If Primrose wanted to remain obtuse, Rue wasn’t going to force reality upon her. Rue had been raised by Lord Akeldama and thus understood deviating taste. Primrose had been raised by Ivy Tunstell and thus understood hats. She would never accept being wholly outside society’s purview.

  Tasherit had a rough road ahead of her. If she decides to take it. She was a cat; she might simply settle for a less challenging sunbeam.

  Rue demurred. “She holds you in high esteem is all. I should think she, like all of us, would like to meet the gentleman before you marry him.”

  Prim blanched. “She would eat him alive.”

  Rue pre
tended not to hear. “Have you told your brother?”

  “Yes, silly blighter. He laughed at me and asked not to be in the wedding party.”

  Rue swallowed down a smile, surprising herself. Amazing how a few minutes in Primrose’s company makes everything that much better.

  By the time the young ladies resurfaced, the workers had gone and The Spotted Custard seemed as close to her original pristine state as possible. Decklings scurried about. Deckhands lumbered in their wake, issuing orders. Percy was in full navigator splendour, holding court over Footnote and Virgil.

  Virgil had returned so recently from his errand that they were in time to watch him hand over the fated pamphlet. Percy bent over the manuscript, flipping through it rapidly, searching for a specific article.

  “It isn’t here!” He reached the end and discarded the now-insulting document petulantly.

  His valet was appropriately sympathetic.

  Footnote made a little mur-rup noise of enquiry.

  “My point exactly! Where is it?”

  Rue and Primrose trundled up.

  “Where’s what?” asked Rue.

  Percy whirled. “Never you mind. It’s a surprise. Should it ever happen.”

  Rue chose to be placating. “Very well, be like that. Everything ready for departure?”

  Percy consulted his watch. “In about two hours and twenty-seven minutes.” He looked pleadingly at his sister. “Nosh? I’m starving. Plus it feels as if I haven’t slept in a million years. Oh wait, I haven’t.”

  Primrose took pity on him. “I’ll go and rustle up a picnic, shall I? Rue?”

  “Yes, please.” Rue perked up. “Hard-boiled eggs and pickled gherkins?”

  “Sugarplums, if you’re taking requests,” added Percy.

  “I’ll see what Cook has lying about. I don’t want to interfere with his system. You know how he gets just before a float.”

  “Of course!” said Rue and Percy in unison. Better never to upset a cook.

  Primrose glided away.

  Footnote, who knew very well what was what, followed.

  They returned shortly. Primrose was in possession of a hamper of comestibles, including a wedge of Stilton, crusty bread, and the requested boiled eggs. Footnote was licking his chops.