When the second drew to a close, Lord Maundevyle returned her to his mother’s side, handing her back to her hostess with a courteous bow. ‘Thank you, Miss Werth,’ he said politely. ‘You are an excellent dancer.’
The compliment felt more a matter of form than particularly sincere, but Gussie accepted it anyway. For someone of her limited experience, to hold her own in the quadrille, and without disgracing herself, was no mean achievement, and she was pleased with her own performance.
Her joyous feelings dimmed a little upon perceiving Mr. Selwyn waiting to take his turn, and though he, too, wore so splendid a mask as to cover much of his face, his demeanour made it quite apparent that he took no pleasure in the prospect of partnering her. She wondered why a man of his age and apparent disposition should consent to follow his mother’s dictates at all, if he did not like them, and felt that she had not got the measure of these Selwyns.
‘Miss Werth,’ he said briefly, and held out his hand, omitting every other courtesy.
Gussie suppressed a sigh, and reminded herself that the duty need be gone through only once, and then she and Mr. Selwyn would both be released. Courtesy compelled them both into a pair of dances, and the forms must be observed.
As she accepted his reluctant offer, Gussie’s glance happened to take in Lady Maundevyle, who had not chosen to dance, instead taking up a position from which she might observe the goings-on among the dancers. Her attention was fixed upon Lord Maundevyle, straying once to Gussie; her manner was of heightened interest, even excitement, as though — as though, what? What could she possibly imagine might have happened over the duration of two dances? If her ladyship entertained hopes that either Gussie’s heart or her eldest son’s might have been smitten with love in so short a space of time, she was destined for disappointment. But as an explanation, that seemed insufficient; for if Gussie was no worthy partner for the opening of her grand ball, she was still less worthy as a potential wife for Lord Maundevyle. And here in the room were a great many superior contenders, many of whom doubtless had very definite hopes about the business.
Still, Lady Maundevyle’s anticipation was palpable — with, perhaps, a degree of disappointment, when her elder son turned away from Gussie with no apparent reluctance, and sought the hand of another female.
Gussie’s sinking heart as Charles led her into the forming set was somewhat arrested by a glimpse of Great-Aunt Honoria’s bodiless head, sailing dreamily up, over the balcony railings, and into the midst of the orchestra.
With a strangled note and an audible curse, the music ceased.
‘Aunt?’ Gussie called. ‘Pray come down. It is difficult to dance without music, you know, and the poor fellows had no expectation of encountering monstrosities when they agreed to play this evening.’
‘Monstrosities!’ Honoria retorted, her head appearing over the balustrade. ‘I like that!’
She spoke in a belligerent tone, as though greatly offended. But Gussie was sufficiently well acquainted with her great-aunt to understand that the words were a literal truth. ‘I know you do,’ she said soothingly. ‘Come down and dance, if you like. Having announced yourself to the gathering, I am sure no objection could be made to your joining us, even if you have misplaced your feet. And Great-Uncle Silvester could partner you, you know.’
‘I have not seen Silvester,’ Honoria sniffed, but she did come down, and soon disappeared into the sea of dancers. Whether or not she danced, Gussie could not see, but at least the interruption was ended; after a pause of a few minutes, while the musicians presumably got over their shock, the music began again, and the dancing resumed.
The hubbub of conversation among the dancers and those watching took longer to dissipate. Gussie had heard more than one woman scream, and having spoken so calmly to the horrible apparition, and acknowledged her as aunt, she knew she had thoroughly placed herself beyond the pale.
The reflection did not much discompose her.
‘I hope you have asked Miss Frostell to dance, or that you intend to,’ Gussie said to Mr. Selwyn, in what was probably a transparent attempt to turn the subject away from her disgraceful relative.
It failed.
‘I wonder what it can be like to live at Werth Towers,’ said Charles. ‘Such occurrences are commonplace, I collect. Your manner proclaims it.’
‘Like me, she knows no one in this company, and I would not like to imagine her left without a partner.’ Gussie had lost sight of Miss Frostell halfway through her dances with Lord Maundevyle, and had seen nothing of her since.
‘Is she a ghost?’ said Charles.
‘Miss Frostell? Oh, no. She is as alive as you and I.’
His lip curled. ‘I believe you know what I meant, Miss Werth.’
‘Perhaps I do not choose to discuss it, Mr. Selwyn.’
He handed her through a few more forms without making any other remark, but she did not think this was out of consideration for her wishes. His attention had strayed from her. His head turned this way and that, out of sync with the requirements of the dance, as though he were looking for something.
Or someone, for she saw Lord Maundevyle dancing several couples away, with a lady she did not recognise. It was he who had drawn his brother’s regard, but for no reason she could imagine, for nothing could exceed the ordinariness of his present behaviour. Nor did his partner seem to be of such dazzling beauty as to merit such attention.
‘Does something interest you about your brother, sir?’ she said at last, when he continued to ignore her. Really, she would take silence over impertinent questions, but to be outright passed over by one’s partner in favour of a close scrutiny of someone else was not to be borne.
Charles’s head whipped back around. ‘Nothing whatsoever, Miss Werth, I assure you.’
The response was not merely meant to silence her. He spoke with chagrin. ‘Were you expecting something of interest to happen?’ she asked. ‘And you are disappointed that it has not.’
Charles said nothing.
‘So, I think, is Lady Maundevyle.’
His smile was acid. ‘You appear to possess a penetrating intellect, Miss Werth. I may as well tell you, I find it dashed inconvenient.’
‘Though I have failed to penetrate your secrets, so I am not much to be feared, alas.’ Gussie, having recalled Lady Maundevyle’s strange behaviour, sought her out among those watching the dance. She was not far away; Gussie caught a glimpse of her every time she turned.
She was watching Gussie and Mr. Selwyn with a fixated attention that could only be termed unnerving.
‘Something is intended,’ said Gussie, with a little asperity. ‘Something is expected. I can see that perfectly plainly. Will you not tell me what it is?’
He opened his mouth; but whether he had done so with any intention of satisfying her curiosity, or merely of issuing another denial, Gussie was never to know. For all at once, something did happen, a something of such shocking magnitude as to arrest the entire ballroom, and bring the dance to an abrupt halt.
And it centred around Lord Maundevyle.
A commotion began in that part of the ballroom, and a bustle. Gussie heard a gasp, and a faint shriek, followed by another scream; and that was Lord Maundevyle’s partner backing away from him — turning — fleeing to the far side of the ballroom. Others around his lordship followed the excitable lady’s example, leaving an open space clearing around the lord of the house.
Though he was no longer recognisable as Henry, Lord Maundevyle, save that the crimson velvet of his mask identified him.
Gone were his pale skin and dark hair. In their place, scales sprouted; not green, like those adorning the features of Gussie’s costume, but the same brash red as his coat. His jaw lengthened and changed, became a long, elegant snout; the handsome coat split apart at the seams and fell away, revealing a body swelling in size, gaining in muscle, Lord Maundevyle’s bones audibly flexing and growing.
A protrusion erupted from his back, and another. They grew and spread and billowed out i
nto enormous, sail-like wings, their tops brushing the distant ceiling.
When the process was complete, Gussie found that she had been upstaged as the most magnificent dragon in the room. Lord Maundevyle crouched upon the floor of the ballroom, resplendent in scarlet and wine, his scales glittering in the light of a hundred beeswax candles.
Smoke curled from his nostrils.
He did not long remain tranquil. Some disorder of the mind afflicted him, for he began to violently shake his head, and backed towards the wall, almost squashing several transfixed dancers in the process.
People fled, some of them screaming.
Gussie cast a brief glance at his lordship’s mother. She was not much surprised to see an expression of wild triumph upon the lady’s countenance; indeed, she radiated a satisfaction so profound, she could almost have levitated upon it.
Gussie took a steadying breath.
Lord Maundevyle’s transformation had been expected by no one, least of all him. His shock and horror were perfectly apparent.
Well, Gussie amended, thinking of Lady Maundevyle. No one had expected this but his mother, in all likelihood, and perhaps his siblings. But his frenzied behaviour led her to believe that no one had troubled to inform him.
Gussie stepped forward.
‘Miss Werth!’ Mr. Selwyn caught at her arm, halting her advance. ‘I cannot think it wise for you to approach my brother.’
‘He is in distress, sir, and clearly needs help. Were you planning to provide it?’
‘He might hurt you—’
‘I am the only person here with any experience of Wyrding,’ said Gussie firmly. ‘I can tell that much from the feeble behaviour of your mother’s honoured guests. You will release me.’
Mr. Selwyn did so, albeit with a sneer. ‘I hope you will not come to regret this foolhardiness.’
‘I trust that your poor brother shall not, at any rate.’ Gussie did not waste any more words upon him, but advanced upon Lord Maundevyle. She did take due care, for he had clearly gone from merely aloof to thoroughly dangerous. She had never beheld a fully grown, adult dragon before, and found the experience not a little intimidating. Despite her scornful words, she did not altogether blame those who had hastily departed the scene, nor those who stood transfixed with such fear — or fascination — as to have, apparently, no power of removal.
‘Lord Maundevyle?’ she said, coming to a stop a few feet before him.
His lordship continued to thrash, his great head swinging from side to side. His silver-gilt claws were making a terrible mess of the tiled floor.
‘You will not get it off that way,’ she observed prosaically. ‘It is not an ill-fitting coat, to be shaken off in a fit of temper.’ She folded her arms and stood her ground, even as he opened his great jaws and uttered a vast roar in her general direction.
Someone came up beside her: Miss Frostell. ‘This is reckless, my dear,’ she commented softly.
‘No one else seemed minded to help the poor man. Not even his scheming family.’
‘You imagine this to be the intended result?’ Miss Frostell spoke doubtfully, her scepticism plain. ‘Surely no one could wish such a Wyrding on their own nearest relatives.’
‘That is exactly what I imagine,’ said Gussie, stepping back out of the way of a flailing claw. The ground shook beneath her, and an unpromising rumble of stonework met her ear. ‘Something was obviously meant to happen tonight, and this cannot be mere happenstance. Though what it has to do with me I cannot—’ She stopped.
‘You were just dancing with him, were you not?’ said Miss Frostell.
‘I was. Our dances ended half an hour ago, but perhaps that need not…’
‘What are you thinking, Gussie?’
‘I hardly know.’ Gussie shook off the half-formed thoughts. ‘Now is not the time, Frosty. We have a dragon to tame.’
‘Dragon-taming is not numbered among my talents.’
‘Nor mine.’ And Gussie was nonplussed, for having expressed a desire to help poor Lord Maundevyle, and feeling more than equal to the dangers of attempting to do so, she found herself at a loss. None of her words, whether soothing or scolding, appeared to be making any impression upon his lordship; she doubted whether he had even heard her, such a ruckus was he making himself.
She did not quite dare to touch him. Bold she could be, but she disputed Miss Frostell’s use of the term reckless. She was not so reckless as to insert herself between the thrashing claws of an enraged — or frightened? — dragon, as yet unused to the new configuration of his limbs.
If only she could reach the vicinity of his head. Up there, he might hear her. But the wings upon her own back were only paper and cloth, and she had not the means to propel herself so much as an inch higher.
She looked about for Lady Maundevyle, but could not see the useless woman. How abominable, to create such a situation, and then abandon her beleaguered child to his unwanted fate! Gussie had no patience with her.
If any of the guests were Wyrded, none of them had shown it. Certainly none of them appeared to have the power to fly.
‘Nothing for it,’ said she, and, lifting her head, she screamed: ‘Great-Uncle Silvester!’
‘Your aunt, too, perhaps,’ commented Miss Frostell.
Gussie added, ‘HONOOOORIA!’
To raise one’s voice to such a degree might be supremely improper, and bound to earn Gussie the label of hoyden at least. But when Lord Maundevyle had spectacularly transformed into a scaled, fire-breathing demon in the midst of a lively country-dance, Gussie knew her own transgressions would be swiftly forgotten. The neighbourhood for miles around would talk of nothing but Lord Maundevyle, the Dragon for months.
A dusty flap of wings alerted her to Silvester’s arrival, and something shot past her ear. ‘See if you can talk him down, uncle!’ she called after him. ‘He is out of his senses with shock, poor man, and I fear he may do himself an injury.’
‘Or someone else,’ said Miss Frostell.
‘Yes, though I am less concerned about that,’ answered Gussie. ‘Anyone who has not sense enough to maintain a clear distance quite deserves to be disembowelled.’
‘Would you consider three or four feet as a clear distance?’ Miss Frostell took a step back.
Gussie surveyed the scant space between herself and the dragon’s front legs, and judged it prudent to take a step back also. ‘Obviously I was not including us in such general opprobrium.’
‘No, indeed.’
Minutes passed, and it did appear that Silvester’s efforts, whatever they were, might be working. Gussie spied a small, granite-dark shape winging its way madly about in the vicinity of Lord Maundevyle’s left ear, and under the influence of that dark little presence, the dragon’s thrashings grew, gradually, quieter. At length, Silvester was able to perch himself upon the arch of Lord Maundevyle’s eyebrow, and the great head came slowly down.
Gussie heard her uncle’s voice in a ceaseless, grinding whisper. ‘Coquelicot for summer bonnets,’ he was saying. ‘Splendid hue for ribbon. Daughters all wore it. Quite mad for it, the lot of them. Ratafia? No, no, thank you, don’t care for it above half. Do ask Edwina, however. Always did have a taste for the stuff.’
He rambled on in like style, making little sense as far as Gussie could tell, and his conversational topics bore no relation to one another whatsoever. What mysterious effect such nonsense could be having on Lord Maundevyle, Gussie did not pretend to understand; perhaps it was simply that his rasping, near-monotone voice offered a soothing counterpoint to the raging tumult of his lordship’s disordered wits. Whatever the truth of it, Great-Uncle Silvester talked on until the great head had sunk upon his forelegs, and he lay crouched and quiet.
‘Bravo, Uncle,’ said Gussie. ‘You always were a fair hand in a crisis.’
Silvester shuffled his granite wings, possibly in satisfaction.
‘He looks miserable,’ said Miss Frostell.
‘Great-Uncle Silvester?’
�
�No. His lordship.’
He did, at that. Gone was the raging terror of Starminster, like at any moment to break into gouts of devastating flame. In his place skulked a creature overcome with dejection, and without hope of reprieve.
Gussie chanced it. She stepped up, and laid a hand upon the nearest of the great, downed feet before her. Her hand looked small and ineffectual against such overblown size and majesty, and she was not surprised when Lord Maundevyle made no reaction whatsoever.
‘Henry?’ came a shriek at her elbow, and Gussie looked round to see Clarissa returned from wherever it was she had been. ‘Half an hour!’ she said next, incomprehensibly. ‘I go up to the roof for half an hour and this happens? What has become of you!’
Either the familiarity of his sister’s voice or its penetrating volume pierced the fog of dejected self-pity surrounding Lord Maundevyle, and he opened one eye. It was a clear, golden eye, most attractive, except for its inordinate size.
‘He has discovered his Wyrde,’ said Lady Maundevyle out of nowhere, and Gussie rounded on her.
‘His Wyrde!’ she said. ‘Yes! That has been the intention all along, has it not?’
‘Long have we lamented the loss of our Wyrde!’ proclaimed Lady Maundevyle dramatically. ‘The noble Selwyn family, so sadly diminished! Our eldritch powers faded, our arcane might vanished into nothing. Long have I sought the means of reviving our flagging fortunes! Long have I hidden in shame in my own manor, unable to face the world, for who could do otherwise than pity and disdain us in our diminished state?’ She stood, arms raised, caught in the grip of some feverish elation, and Gussie could only stare. What was this, a stage? And did she have no idea how the world in general perceived those touched by the Wyrde?’
‘You should really ask Theo about all this,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘If he ever returns from the dark hole into which he appears to have crawled.’
Lady Maundevyle ignored this, too. ‘Happy day!’ she said in a ringing voice. ‘Happy hour! The dragons of Maundevyle have returned!’
And to Gussie’s immense surprise and horror, Lady Maundevyle made her — Gussie — the low obeisance that might ordinarily be offered a queen.
Wyrde and Wayward Page 9