Steadfast

by Mercedes Lackey

  “There are plenty of little cottages that are no more than a room, a bathroom, and a little kitchen,” Lionel assured her. “You’re probably used to a kitchen even smaller in a caravan.”

  “There’s nothing I can’t do with a fireplace and a spirit-kettle, perhaps a spirit-stove,” she declared.

  “Well then, that’s settled. Now . . . show us those shields, while we still have time for a lesson,” Lionel ordered. And she did.

  • • •

  For several days, Lionel’s banker sent daily messages telling him that small cottages were not to be had at any price. But then, within the course of a day, everything changed.

  And it was the railroad strike that changed them.

  Railroad workers, like the dockworkers, had been threatening to strike for many weeks over their wretched pay and hazardous working conditions. Only King Edward’s coronation had prevented them from striking earlier this year. But now—despite promises of talks, nothing had changed, and the men were getting desperate. Some had even died, working in the terrible heat without respite, or sometimes, even without drinking water.

  They struck, at the height of summer holiday season, knowing that striking now would affect the broadest range of people, including the wealthy, most of whom had given up carriages in favor of first class rail. No escaping from the city on the weekend to cooler country estates. No taking the family away for the more elevated version of the common man’s seaside holiday.

  This was dreadful for everyone who made his living catering to holiday-makers, but worst on the holiday-makers themselves, many of whom found themselves stranded far from home with no way to get back, or found themselves with no way to get to their destinations.

  But it was excellent for Lionel and Katie. Because the morning of the strike—which, providentially, occurred on a dark day—the banker sent an urgent note around to Lionel. Have prospect, but must leap upon it now, said the note, and gave him the address of a leasing agent.

  Lionel went straight there as soon as he finished breakfast.

  It was another brilliantly sunny day, portending more un-English heat, when he walked into the little office staffed only by the agent and a clerk. The leasing agent was just short of tearing his hair out, and so upset was he that he vented his feelings to Lionel, a complete stranger, as soon as Lionel entered the door. “This strike!” he cried, flinging his hands wide and scattering papers which his little clerk scrambled to pick up. “It’s ruinous! I have cottages with people who won’t leave and won’t pay any more! I’m having to hire carters to go around to toss ’em out because the constables won’t do it! I have people camping in cottage gardens and having to send lads around to throw them out! I have cottages going empty because the people that hired ’em can’t get here!”

  “It’s the latter I am interested in, my good man,” harrumphed Lionel, who had donned a long-abandoned persona of “Professor Pennywhistle” to aid him in his ruse. “Need a cottage. Long-term lease. The wife needs sea air. I’m a busy man. Brought her down from Crawley in me trap. Can’t abide these filthy railroads. Tried a hotel, ruinously expensive. Need a cottage for a year at least. Maybe more, dependin’ on how long it takes her to get over her collywobbles.”

  The moment that Lionel said “Need a cottage for a year at least,” the agent stopped his laments and paid instant and complete attention. “I have just the thing!” he said, but before he could proceed to lay out a selection, Lionel interrupted him.

  “Don’t think I’m made of money! She don’t need a palace!” he barked, and named a price.

  The agent wilted a little, but came back gamely. They jousted for a bit, before they settled on a price. “It won’t be on the seaside—” the agent warned.

  “Brighton’s on the seaside. Sea air on one side of it is sea air on the other side of it,” Lionel said indifferently.

  “Well then. Harry—come take the gentleman to see Hare Cottage, Violet Cottage, Li—”

  “Which one of ’em has plumbed-on water and a full bathroom?” Lionel interrupted. “And gas. Or electricity. She’s not to be hauling coal or wood about, says the doctor.” Then he muttered, just loud enough for the agent to hear, “Lot of demmed nonsense if you ask me.”

  Now, Lionel was very, very good at reading people; he’d had a mentalist act as well as the magic act before he settled into magic-aided-by-Elementals. He’d been gauging this man from his own remarks and attitude as he went along, and very early it had been clear that the agent had a wife that he considered himself to be “saddled” with. He wouldn’t dare rid himself of her—divorces were a matter of scandal and respectable people didn’t get them. But he resented her, and even though Lionel’s attitude was avuncular to say the least, by this point he was entirely on Lionel’s side.

  “Only Lily Cottage,” he said. “It’s the best-appointed but it’s . . . well, it’s out of the way. No amusements nearby, and a walk to the ’bus. It’s in a very quiet neighborhood; no shops, mostly professional offices. . . .”

  “Perfect!” Lionel exclaimed. “Doctor says ‘quiet,’ ‘quiet’ is what she’ll get. She wants amusement, she can read her magazines and do her fancywork. She wants anythin’ else, well, she can get strong enough to walk to it, eh?”

  “You’ll have to find a girl, or a char,” the agent said, tentatively. “I can suggest several agencies.”

  Lionel took the cards the agent offered, but of course, he had no intention of hiring anyone. “Done,” he said, and opened his wallet to hand over the first six months in rent. He winced a little at the hole this put in his own savings, but reminded himself that if he hadn’t bought his little house, he’d have been paying that much for some time. Besides, it was for Katie. He signed the lease as “Richard Langford,” just to make things easier on Katie so she wouldn’t have to remember a false name, and took away the address card and the keys; tonight they could all take the trap over to it and have a look around, then he could have Mrs. Buckthorn put everything to rights.

  The agent seemed only too relieved to get the property settled on someone in this day of otherwise disaster.

  • • •

  Katie sat squeezed in between Lionel and Jack on the seat of the pony-trap, feeling nervous and excited at the same time. She’d given her week’s notice to Mrs. Baird with the excuse that she was taking her act to Blackpool, who had said, kindly, “I’m sorry to see you go, but Blackpool may do better than Brighton if this strike goes on.” So that was done. And she was half afraid of what she might find when they opened the door of this “cottage.” Black beetles and wood rot? Earthen floors and a hip bath?

  But Lionel had said it was surrounded by professional offices, and lawyers and doctors and so on liked their comforts . . .

  Well, one thing was certain. The agent had not lied about it being quiet. Most of the buildings here were newish or newly renovated, with gaslights all up and down the street. They were mostly three stories tall, with shining brass plaques at the highly polished front doors saying whose offices were within.

  And then, finally, they found it. A little one-story cottage squeezed in at the back of the row of buildings, just as Lionel’s own house was squeezed in and overshadowed by others. Clearly it had once been the carriage house for the larger building, which had been turned into offices, but no one wanted an office that would be so dark and gloomy that you would have to burn expensive gas to see even in the middle of the day. From the outside it looked very neat and trim. They tied up the pony at an iron ring that was an indicator of what the cottage had once been, and Lionel opened the door.

  It was, of course, dark inside. But they had, of course, come prepared. Jack handed down a lantern from the back of the trap after lighting it, and Lionel led the way inside.

  “He said the gas was still on . . . ah, here we go.” Lionel moved forward, confidently lighting lamps as he went, while
Katie trailed behind.

  You could easily see the antecedents of this place, although it had been finished up rather nicely. It was all one floor with a loft above where the hay and feed had once been stored; presumably if a family took it, the children would sleep above, in the loft, while the parents slept below. To Katie’s relief, the floors were wood, not dirt, nor polished cobblestones. It was all one room; a bed was behind a screen for privacy, there was a bit of a kitchen with a modern gas stove fitted into a hearth, a small sink for washing-up, and behind a partition, a cabinet-bath and a boiler. Well, she wouldn’t need that for a while. There was also an indoor, water-flushing loo, like Mrs. Baird had.

  For the rest, well, it was obvious that the cottage was not as well cared for as the rooms at Mrs. Baird’s. The level of general cleanliness was nothing like as high as Katie’s Ma had maintained in the caravan. But it was just as obvious that this would be a very nice, if dark, place to live.

  “No one is going to pay any attention to comings and goings here,” Jack observed from his spot by the door. “No neighbors to poke into your business. No one asking why there was a man here, when there was only supposed to be a lady. No one asking why the lady was coming back so late at night, if she really was a lady.”

  “Place is filthy,” said Lionel, with the air of distaste of someone who is used to immaculate surroundings. “Mrs. Buckthorn will sort it out, though. I’m sure I have some old china and linens of my mothers stored away somewhere; you can have that. Otherwise does this suit you, Kate?”

  Over all, the cottage had about four times the space of her room at Mrs. Baird’s—and a great deal more convenience. Interestingly, when it came to comfort and luxury—the family caravan had more than this cottage did, but it had all been squeezed into a very small space. And Mrs. Baird’s rooms were nicer. But the advantages far overwhelmed the disadvantages. “It’s going to be lovely,” she said, with genuine warmth. “Absolutely lovely.”

  Then she grinned. “Especially without the caterwauling of that Irish soprano beside me, and the chorus girl practicing her kicks above me!”

  Lionel grinned back. “All right then. Mrs. Buckthorn will have you set up within the week; she’ll find out when the milkman comes round and what he has and charges, get this place cleaned up and decent, and stock the pantry. In a week, it will be yours, and we’ll move your bits over in the trap.”

  “A place to practice . . .” she sighed. “That’ll be worth it, alone.”

  As of to underscore that, one of the gaslights suddenly brightened, and a salamander poked his head up over the glass shade.

  “It seems your friends approve,” Lionel chuckled. “All right. Let’s get you back to Mrs. Baird’s. Before you know it, the week will be over.”

  • • •

  Lionel’s words were prophetic, although it was slightly less than that, as the move was scheduled for the evening of dark day. All of her things fit into a couple of secondhand trunks Mrs. Buckthorn had found, which neatly fitted into the back of the trap. It was just Mrs. Buckthorn and Katie this time; the men were coming later after the housekeeper brought the trap and pony back.

  It was quiet once again, although it was at least two hours to sunset, as they tied the pony up at the ring and the two of them pulled the trunks out of the cart and brought them inside. Mrs. Buckthorn showed her how to put a penny in a slot to make the gas flow, and then, once the lamps were lit, waited for Katie’s reaction.

  Katie could hardly believe the change in this place. The floor and walls must have been scoured, because they were at least two shades lighter than she remembered, and the colors of the striped wallpaper, though faded, were no longer shades of dull blue-gray. There were a couple of homely braided rugs on the floor, and little bits of lace and fabric hiding the battered surfaces of the tables and the worn upholstery of the chairs. The gas stove gleamed. There were proper pans and dishes in the cupboard, and cans and jars and paper packets of food stocked in the pantry. She peeped around the screen, to see that the bed, which had not looked particularly inviting, had been made up with pillows that had not been there before, and a pretty, faded counterpane.

  “Mrs. Buckthorn!” she exclaimed. “This is lovely!”

  “Well, it was a mort’o work, but worth it, dearie,” the older woman said complacently. “You just see that you keep it clean.”

  “I will!” she promised, then listened carefully as Mrs. Buckthorn described the ways and arrival of the milkman, what she was to pay him and how, and how to find the one, lone little shop that supplied some of the basic needs of the men in the offices all around her.

  “There’s naught much choice, but if you forget something, at least you won’t be without your tea for your egg-and-tea,” she said, and went on to show Katie where everything was—and in the case of the boiler for the bath, how to use it. For water for washing up, there was a teakettle; the sink would scarcely hold more than a pan, a dish, and a teacup, after all.

  “I’ll leave you to settle in,” the housekeeper said, the look on her face showing that she was satisfied with Katie’s gratitude. She let herself out, and Katie set about putting her own few bits in place.

  A fancy embroidered Chinese shawl went over one of the chairs to brighten it up. A wooden stool was softened with a cushion. She got out her gown for tomorrow and hung it up to hang out any wrinkles, and put her nightdress on the bed. Then she went about the room, placing some of the little things that she had somehow acquired since she had arrived in Brighton. Lionel had given her a little china Turk with a sword as big as he was, and a pretty glass lamp that burned scented oil. Suzie had given her lace panels she draped over the curtain-rod and the privacy screen, and one of the fancy “boudoir-dolls” that you threw coconuts to win down on the Boardwalk. Jack had given her a stone incense burner and a little iron pot she could keep a coal in for a salamander to curl up around—and just today, several prints to hang on the wall, of fanciful creatures and ladies in long, strange dresses, and a set of embroidered silk scrolls from Japan and China of dragons and phoenixes.

  For all that this was a little house, it was not as comfortable as Mrs. Baird’s boarding house. And if it had been safe to stay there, she never would have left. There were only four windows in the entire cottage, two at the front, and two at the back, at either side of the front and back doors. She already knew how overshadowed the place was.

  But it was nice.

  There was one place she hadn’t explored yet, and now that she had light and had found the candles, she lit one and pulled a rag rug away from the middle of the floor. There was a hatch there, with a recessed iron ring in it, and she pulled that up.

  Why a former carriage house would have a cellar, she didn’t know. Maybe it had been dug when the carriage house had been converted to a cottage. She probably wouldn’t have known it was there if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Buckthorn, nor would she have had an inkling of what to do with a cellar. But Mrs. Buckthorn said that, in lieu of an ice-chest, a nice cool cellar was the best place to keep milk, cream, cheese, butter, and other things that tended to spoil. So down the set of stairs Katie went, to see what a cellar looked like.

  Although it was much cooler than the house, she felt immediately claustrophobic, as most Travelers were when confined within four walls. It had walls and a floor made of reused brick, and the only thing down here was a sort of larder-cupboard painted cream and yellow, with doors that looked as if they sealed when you latched them down. She went to it and opened one side. There was a jug of milk there, and a smaller jug of cream, both covered with muslin tied down around the tops tightly. There was a pat of butter in a covered glass butter dish. And there were four fresh eggs in a bowl.

  On the other side, there was a bowl with bunches of grapes in it, another with four fresh plums and four apricots, a third with four fresh tomatoes, a water glass with a bouquet of cress, and another cover
ed glass dish with wedges of cheese.

  She clearly wouldn’t have to ask Mrs. Buckthorn to shop for her for at least four days.

  As she went up the stairs and shut the trap door, she was already planning breakfast. She had just dropped it in place when she heard a tap at the door.

  As she had expected, it was Jack and Lionel, with a basket. She blew out the candle and set it on a little table that was there, and let them in.

  “This is vastly improved,” said Lionel, handing her the basket. “I told you Mrs. Buckthorn would work wonders.”

  “You were right.” The basket clinked and was quite heavy; peeking in, she found beer and lemonade bottles. “I think you are pulling a deception on me, however,” she continued sternly. “I think the rent for this cottage is much higher than my room and board at Mrs. Baird’s. I’m not that ignorant that you can gull me.”

  “I think you should open bottles for all three of us, and we’ll explain,” said Lionel, not looking the least repentant for his deception.

  Since she obviously was not going to get any satisfaction from him until she did, she took the basket to the sideboard, got three bottles open, and brought them all to where the two men had settled into the two chairs, leaving her the lounge. She handed each of them a beer and settled in with her lemonade. She had opened the windows, front and back, and a warm breeze wafted in through the gauze curtains. Unlike Mrs. Baird’s, it was so quiet you might have been on a village street in the countryside.

  “We were not exaggerating when we said that having your Elementals running about the boarding house could be very dangerous,” Lionel said, leaning back in the chair after rearranging the cushions a little. “There are people who have just enough magic that they can see Elementals under certain conditions—as you discovered. The problem is that the Elementals are used to thinking they are invisible unless they choose to be seen. A startled sylph—not such a problem. A startled brownie—simply runs and hides in a mousehole. A startled undine or other Water nymph just vanishes. But a startled Fire Elemental . . . sometimes starts fires.”