The pair walked toward the statue of Sekhmet, each placing a fiery torch in a sconce on either side of it. It was an odd sight: the ancient statuary from Egypt flanked by primitive flaming torches in a modern chamber illuminated by artificial light.
“Welcome to the Society of Sekhmet,” said one of the women as they turned to face the group.
“The Ankh is pleased that you have accepted its special invitation,” said the other.
Mirror images of each other, they continued to speak in turn, using low, modulated voices. They weren’t automatons, but they gave off the impression of being two halves of one whole. I suspected one of them had been the lantern carrier and the second woman had been the owner of the white glove that collected our invitations.
“Now, it is our honor to welcome . . .”
“. . . the Most Reverent Ankh.”
A hushed rumble filtered over the group. Then it became still and silent, holding its collective breath.
When the two women deemed the small crowd to be properly reverent, they walked back to where they’d entered. One held the fabric covering aside, and the other opened the door. Anticipation crackled through the chamber as a tall, slender figure stepped into view.
At first I thought it was a man, for the individual was dressed in the masculine attire of a black stovepipe hat made popular by the American president Lincoln, along with a well-tailored black frock coat, trousers, and gleaming black shoes. Beneath the coat was a crimson shirtwaist and a waistcoat of black and red paisley. Black gloves, a black neckcloth, and a black walking stick topped by an ornate gold head completed the ensemble.
But as the Ankh walked toward Sekhmet, I became uncertain of his or her gender. The movements were easy and graceful, the facial features and hair were obscured by the hat brim’s shadow. From my distant seat, I made out smooth, fair skin, a well-defined jaw, and a long, slender nose. The mouth was full, and the cheeks high, and I revised my opinion toward that of the feminine race. As I scrutinized the individual, I had a niggling feeling I was missing something important.
“Good evening.” The Ankh’s voice gave no further confirmation or denial of gender. It was smooth, hardly above a whisper, and somewhere in the range of a tenor. Despite its low volume, every syllable reached all corners of the chamber. “I am pleased to be with you at last, dear ladies of the Society of Sekhmet.”
Another rustle filtered through the room. It has been my experience that young ladies can never sit still for long, particularly while dressed in corsets and heavy, clinging skirts.
“In the past, some of you attended our salon meetings dedicated to the study of Sekhmet and other fascinating aspects of Egyptology. And some of you have accepted the invitation to join us for the first time this evening. Please accept my apology that tonight’s discussion will not be about the meaning of the uraeus, as you might have anticipated. Shall we save that for a more conventional meeting during the daylight hours?”
A few titters indicated that the Ankh had made some sort of joke.
“Indeed,” the Ankh said with a dusky laugh, “I am gratified so many of you chose to leave the—what are they calling it? The event of the season?—to join us here in our humble meeting. After all . . . what can one expect from such a production as the Roses Ball when one is a young and single female? Or should I be more precise and call those Society events what they truly are? Competitions. Shows. Horseflesh fairs. Slave auctions.”
I leaned forward, intrigued by the Ankh’s speech while listening intently for any inflection or accent that might help with identifying the individual.
“I refer to you as being the horseflesh—and the slaves—of course, my dearest young ladies. For that is what you are in the eyes of those wealthy, handsome young bachelors—and the not-so-attractive or rich ones as well. The ones whom you’d prefer to ignore when your mamas and papas introduce them to you.”
An appreciative reaction—nods, exchanging of glances—from the audience was recognizable as affirmation of the Ankh’s words.
“And why is it, I wonder, that you are the ones to be paraded about under the watchful eyes of your chaperones whilst waiting for—nay, pining for—a glance from the young man you favor? Why is it that you are kept pristine, confined in your corsets and your restrictive parlors? Why, I ask of you young ladies, is it the female race who must sit still and take pains to be slender and pretty, all the while taking care to have nary a relevant thought in their heads? Why can you not have opinions and adventures, and do interesting and exciting things . . . and why must you be under constant guard by a mother, a maid, or some controlling male? A father, a brother, an uncle . . . a husband.”
The Ankh’s words were nothing I hadn’t thought before, nothing that hadn’t settled in my mind as, day after day, I observed the restrictions imposed on others of my gender—particularly of the upper class. I was an unusual case because I existed with little chaperonage and adult interference, but I still experienced the societal restrictions and expectations. And although the suffragettes preached of gaining the right to vote, tonight the Ankh was speaking of concepts beyond politics. Listening to her, I became incensed anew at the plight of my feminine race.
Apparently, I was not alone, for someone clapped and then, all at once, the chamber was filled with the roar of applause. I joined them and noticed Miss Stoker had done so as well. She seemed just as fixated on our speaker as I had been.
The Ankh gave a cool smile to the room and then she (I use the feminine pronoun for simplicity’s sake) walked over to the statue. It seemed as if she were consulting with Sekhmet. A fanciful concept to be sure, and I’m certain the Ankh was merely attempting to lead the more gullible and impressionable women in the room to believe it to be the case.
Then the Ankh faced us once more.
“Why can’t young ladies choose where they go and what they do? Why do you not have the same freedom that your male counterparts do?”
A low rumble swept the room as if the occupants were asking themselves the same passionate questions.
“Ah,” the Ankh said, once again employing that cool smile, “but you do. You have done so. By accepting the invitation for tonight, you have taken the first step in making a change. In freeing yourselves from restrictions and repressions. Of freeing yourself from being locked away like some bird in a gilded cage—until you are shunted away to a different cage with a husband whom you only might love. A husband who will make every little decision for you. A husband who will control whatever you want and need. A husband who will own you. He will quite literally own you. Yes, my lovelies . . . like a slave.
“No, dear ladies . . . you have all taken the first step on a path of independence and excitement by coming here tonight. By enrolling in the Society of Sekhmet.”
I frowned, both fascinated and stymied by the Ankh’s speech. Was this a suffragette group, gathering together for women’s rights?
And was someone hunting down the members and killing them, making it appear that they had taken their own lives?
Why? Who?
Although strange, the group seemed harmless enough. In fact, the element of adventure and clandestine activity was attractive even to myself. I could only imagine how a young woman such as Lady Hodgeworth, whose most exciting moment of the day was likely determining which frock to wear to afternoon tea, would be roused by this titillating speech. I peeked at Miss Stoker. Surely, being a vampire hunter, she felt much as I did.
The Ankh’s voice dropped. “I know what it is you truly want, ladies. You yearn for adventure and excitement. But most of all, you want . . . him. Whoever he might be, you want him. Is that not the case? Whether you be beautiful or homely, slender or plump . . . whether you have straight white teeth and a demure laugh or protruding ones and a spotted face. Whether you are a rich heiress or one whose family has nothing but a powerful name, you want him. You want him to notice you, to want you, to love you. And, my dears, I will help you. I, along with the Power of Sekhmet, will he
lp you gain control of your lives in a manner such that women have never done.”
She was more animated and passionate than she had been so far. “Despite the fact that we are ruled by a queen, the laws and governance of this country—and this world—are controlled by men. That must change. It will change. I will have the power to do so, and those faithful of you shall join me in this change. The day is nigh.”
Again, a single clap launched a roar of applause, and it was several moments before it died down again.
The Ankh looked as if she meant to speak further, but all at once, Miss Stoker threw back the hood of her cloak and rose.
I hissed as everyone in the chamber hushed and turned to look back at her. Sit down! I shouted in my head. You brash fool! This wasn’t part of the plan!
“You,” said the Ankh, her eyes steady from beneath the brim of her hat. They shifted from Miss Stoker to me and back again. The weight and heat of her stare was shocking, but it seemed to have no effect on my companion.
Then Miss Stoker’s voice rang out. “What did you do to Mayellen Hodgeworth?”
Miss Stoker
Miss Stoker’s Grudging Regret
The moment I interrupted the speaker, I realized I could have been a little more subtle. Perhaps I should have had some sort of plan. Yet, as pandemonium broke loose, once again I felt energized and in control. Miss Holmes was screeching at me, the other attendees were babbling in shock, and the Ankh was shouting orders.
“Seize them! Hathor! Osiris!” The Ankh cried, then swiveled to point to the twin female hostesses. “Bastet! Amunet!”
Two large men appeared from behind the silken wall-hangings, and the identical women sprang into action. Grinning with exhilaration, I leapt over a row of chairs with ease, putting a cluster of young women and tumbling chairs between me the Ankh’s minions.
I wanted to get closer to the Ankh, to see if I could pull off the stovepipe hat that obscured his or her face. But the guards were quick, and even amid the chaos, I was aware of Miss Holmes. I could fight my own way out, but she couldn’t.
Time to make our exit. I looked up, judged the distance to the chandelier that hung there, and vaulted up off a chair.
I clocked either Amunet or Bastet on the chin as I swung halfway across the chamber, thanks to the length of the chandelier’s chain. I landed exactly where I planned—next to Miss Holmes—and grabbed her by the arm.
Hathor and Osiris, the two large guards, converged on us as the Ankh and her guests watched the chaos unfold. But thanks to my excellent reflexes, speed, and exceptional strength, I created a riotous barrier of chairs and the refreshments table at the door. My partner and I escaped the chamber with nothing more than a ripped hem (Miss Holmes’s), a sagging hairdo (Miss Holmes’s), and a broken copper-heeled shoe (also Miss Holmes’s).
Because I could run and she couldn’t, I fairly carried my companion down the long, dark tunnel to escape. By that time, she no longer seemed to appreciate my fighting skills.
Once we were back outside in the fresh night air, I saw that the clouds had rolled in. The moon and stars were obscured. Despite the fact that I had done all the work, Miss Holmes was panting in between demanding to know what I was thinking, what had I done, did I realize what danger I might have put us in, and other variations on that theme.
I ignored her and led the way to the nearest busy thoroughfare and flagged down a hansom cab. A few streets away, behind the new Oligary Building and its belching steam, Big Ben’s gears ground rhythmically. A glimpse of his illuminated face through an air-canal told me it was approaching midnight.
Almost three hours since we’d left the party.
“Are you aside of mad? I can’t show myself in this condition,” Miss Holmes snapped when I directed the driver to take us back to Cosgrove Terrace. She was trying to rearrange her hair on the top of her head and having a hard time of it. Her voice was tight. Fury and accusation rolled off her like angry waves.
I felt a little pang of . . . well, it certainly wasn’t guilt. It was . . . regret. Maybe.
“Let me help you,” I said grudgingly, and slid over to her side of the carriage. I stuck a few pins in place, rearranged the cunning little clockwork hair clips, and adjusted some tendrils of hair over one shoulder.
When I was done, she settled back in the corner. Her nose remained in the air during the entire ride back to the party. My hair was in even worse condition, but did she offer to assist me? She did not. Thus, using a hint of reflection from the carriage windows, I put myself to rights before the cab arrived at the Cosgrove-Pitt home.
“I don’t expect to stay very long,” Miss Holmes said from between stiff lips as she climbed down from the carriage without waiting for assistance. “Just long enough to go inside and say good evening to our host and hostess. You needn’t bother to make your carriage available to take me home, Miss Stoker.”
Her spine ramrod straight, she stalked off toward the ascending glider that would take her back into the ball. Her heavy skirts dragged because one of her delicate heels had snapped off during our escape and she had taken off her shoes.
I stifled a smile. Good riddance. And if she was leaving, this would give me the opportunity to find Lady Isabella’s study and locate the invitation list after all. It would be a welcome challenge to avoid the scores of young bachelors looking for a rich and pretty heiress to marry. I happen to fall under both categories.
At the party, I eluded Sir Buford Grandine, who had breath that rivaled the stench from the sewers, and Lord Peregrine Perry-Stokes, who, although quite wealthy, had clammy hands and the tendency to pick his nose when he thought no one was looking. Unfortunately, the habit tended to stain the fingertips of his gloves.
I avoided even Mr. Richard Dancy, who was the least offensive of the lot. He was handsome and had a very comfortable income. Unlike most of his peers, he actually asked me questions and listened to my answers when we conversed, instead of rambling on about horses or hounds or the newly signed Hartford Act.
But even if a young man did show interest in what I might think, I still couldn’t allow any of the bachelors into my affections. What young man, even in our modern London of 1889, would understand the duty and role of a female vampire hunter, let alone want to be married to one? What young man would understand or accept a wife who was not only compelled to spend her nights patrolling the streets, but also who was stronger and faster than he?
I wound my way through the ballroom and down the nearest hallway. I’d been to Cosgrove Terrace once before and remembered the basic layout. The deserted corridor lined with closed doors, gilded mirrors, and a few interesting statues led to Lady Isabella’s parlor. It was logical that her study was nearby.
The noise of the party faded. I heard only the soft hum of whirring gears and the ever-present shish of steam. I tried several doors before I heard someone approaching. I ducked into the next chamber to wait for them to pass.
“Miss Stoker?”
I froze. The door opened, and Mr. Richard Dancy poked his head in.
“Ah, Miss Stoker,” he said, “I thought I’d seen you slip away from the festivities. Is everything all right? Whatever are you doing here in the dark?”
Bloody hell.
“I needed to attend to . . . a private matter,” I replied.
He stepped into the chamber and somehow found the light switch. A soft, mellow glow filtered over the room from the wall sconces, and I realized I had found Lady Isabella’s study after all. Now if I could just get rid of my unwanted companion.
“I’ve been attempting to find you all night, Miss Stoker,” he said, closing the door behind him.
He was a handsome young man with light brown hair that curled, falling in thick waves over his forehead. His dark eyes focused steadily on me. It wasn’t surprising I had no problem dismissing the impropriety of being alone in a chamber with him.
“And now you have found me,” I said. My heart was pounding, but not from fear.
Mr. Danc
y remained at a proper distance, leaning against the door. His warm smile made my insides flutter a bit, and I drew myself up sharply. Focus, Evaline. You’ve got work to do.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he said, and stepped away from the door. “And you seemed to have disappeared. I cannot tell you how many parties and fetes and balls and picnics I’ve attended this Season, hoping to see you and further our acquaintance. Since your presence is so rare, when I heard your name announced, I thought I’d at last have an opportunity to lead you out for a waltz. And perhaps a stroll on the moonlit terrace?”
“Mr. Dancy . . .” I began, hoping fervently Florence would never learn of his apparent interest in me. She’d have us betrothed in a trice.
“I do wish you would call me Richard, but I suppose it won’t be proper until we’ve come to know each other better. And until we’re better acquainted, I don’t believe it would be prudent for us to be found in such an inappropriate situation,” he added, his smile turning almost shy as he gestured to the room. “I wouldn’t want to besmirch your reputation. Perhaps you’d consent to a dance, in full and proper view of an array of chaperones?”
“I’m in complete agreement that we shouldn’t be here,” I said. Hadn’t he been the one to follow me, putting us in this compromising position? “And—” I caught sight of a movement out of the corner of my eye. My heart stopped, then surged back into rhythm.
From where Mr. Dancy was standing, he couldn’t see the figure who slipped out from behind a decorative Oriental screen. I wasn’t certain if I should call an alarm or deal with the intruder myself. But then I realized I was the intruder.
The shadowy figure flashed me a cocky smile, and I jolted with recognition. I’d know that insouciant pose anywhere. Bloody blasted drat! And then Pix had the effrontery to raise a finger to his lips. To tell me to hush!
Somehow I managed to keep my expression blank when I turned to Mr. Dancy. “And”—I finished the sentence, which had dwindled off for a moment—“I would be honored to have a waltz with you.”
The Clockwork Scarab: A Stoker & Holmes Novel Page 9