The Dark Days Club

by Alison Goodman

  There is, of course, so much I wish to say to you, but the Queen awaits this letter, and so it must be brief.

  By now you will be aware that you are different, that you have abilities beyond that of a normal man or woman. Perhaps you have even heard the phrase lusus naturae. I saw these abilities in you early—a shock, since they are not usually inherited, and Andrew showed no sign of them—and, to my everlasting grief, I did not keep the knowledge to myself. I am assuming that you have been approached and tested by others with the same gifts. If they are still alive, it may be Mr. Samuel Benchley, or Sir Dennis Calloway, or the young Earl of Carlston, Mr. Benchley’s new acolyte. These are the men I know, all of them lusus naturae too. All of them Reclaimers.

  Do not trust them, dearest. They are monsters.

  Helen stopped. Reread the sentence: Do not trust them. She stared unseeingly at the roof of the opposite town house. The shock of the warning proved one thing—she had been lying to herself. For all her protestations to Darby, she did trust Lord Carlston, and now her mother had reached from her grave to name him a monster. Helen shook her head. Ten years had passed, and from what she had seen, he was no longer Benchley’s acolyte.

  Have they shown you the Deceivers? Told you their history? Impressed your own importance and destiny upon you? Mr. Benchley did the same to me—he was my mentor—and I felt the call of duty, for the threat of the creatures is undeniable. The Dark Days Club—that is their name—will tell you our duty is to contain them, and to rip the vestige from the souls of their progeny to reclaim the children back to full humanity.

  They will not have told you what that does to us.

  By the time I learned the truth, it was too late: my soul had been compromised.

  When a Reclaimer takes the vestige from a progeny’s soul, it cannot be discharged into the earth like the energy from the whips. A vestige stays within the Reclaimer’s soul—a darkness that eats away at our very essence. With each reclaiming, a little more darkness is deposited, until eventually it destroys all capacity for compassion, for love, and brings madness. A Reclaimer must stop before such darkness envelops him, or he will become a monster. A mad brute capable only of killing.

  Helen raised her eyes from the paper. That was what she had seen in Lord Carlston’s soul: the darkness from reclaiming. And perhaps it explained Mr. Benchley.

  No doubt you also know that, as women, we are expected to take up much of the burden of reclaiming, as we, of course, do not fight like our male counterparts. I was willing to do my duty, for the descent into darkness takes years and, after all, was I not going to stop reclaiming before it affected me?

  Helen frowned. Lord Carlston had made it clear that he wished her to fight. Had that been a lie, or had something fundamental changed? Her mother was right about one thing, though. He had failed to tell her about the terrifying effect of the vestige darkness. Helen pressed her hand under her breast, a small aching pain making it hard to draw breath.

  Mr. Benchley, however, discovered an ancient way to rid himself of all the darkness he had already accrued, and so extend his ability to fight and reclaim and hold off the madness. All he needed was a vessel, and what better vessel than a woman? During a reclaiming—without my knowledge or consent—Mr. Benchley poured all the darkness of his own soul into mine. Shared the burden, he said. I could feel love dying within me, my darling daughter. It was agony, and it continues to be so, but I am not totally destroyed. I have a tiny corner of love left for you and Andrew and your father, and I will defend it to the very last.

  Helen closed her eyes, unable to keep reading. She had seen what one reclaiming had done to Lord Carlston. What had her poor mother suffered at Benchley’s hands, with so much darkness poured into her all at once? The man was beyond a monster. Helen clenched the edge of the windowsill, a sudden rage rocking her on her feet. The wood shifted and creaked under her Reclaimer strength. She snatched her hands away. If she were not careful, she would break the window in her fury. How she wished she could take all her new strength and make Mr. Benchley suffer.

  She stared down at her clenched hands, an awful connection clicking into place. Good God, that was what Lord Carlston and Quinn had been talking about in the Devil’s Acre: Mr. Benchley had proposed to dump all his darkness into her soul, as he had done to her mother, and invited his lordship to do the same. Helen grabbed the edge of the sill again, this time for support. His lordship had said nothing could be done until she had her Reclaimer strength. Now she had it.

  I will defend you to the very last too, my darling. I did not have a true choice, but you do, Helen. It is not only Mr. Benchley who can use ancient alchemy for his own ends.

  I have bequeathed to you a miniature of myself painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. By God’s mercy, I hope that you have it.

  Helen clutched the reticule still hanging from her wrist.

  Set at its back is a disc of woven hair. You will have been told it is made from my own and your father’s hair: a love token. It is not. It is made from three sources: my hair, your hair, and a Deceiver’s hair, taken at its final death.

  A Deceiver’s hair? She yanked open the reticule and slid the miniature into her cupped hand. The portrait had of course not changed, but her mother’s face seemed more somber now, and the painted blue eyes looked straight at her as if, any moment, they would blink and the image would whisper the words on the page. Unsettled by such vivid imagining, Helen turned it over. Now that she knew, the weave of her mother’s auburn hair did seem to hold a slightly darker strand. That must be her own. And the blond hair had belonged to a Deceiver, not her father. This was the reason she could see Deceivers’ life-forces. But why did the miniature create such fear within Jeremiah?

  The three strands are bound together by ancient alchemy and by God’s love. They are woven into a way for your soul to escape destruction. Undo the three strands, purify them with fire to take them back to their elements, and absorb them into yourself, and you will undo your Reclaimer powers. They will be stripped from you. No longer will you be in peril from Deceivers or the Dark Days Club. You will be normal and able to live a life full of love and compassion with your eternal grace safe.

  Our gifts are linked to the energies within the earth. We are at our strongest at the full and new moons when those night energies work upon the earth’s very structure. You must do this on a full moon, at the peak of its rise—midnight—for it to fully take effect. Burn the three strands, mix them with sanctified water and, on the last stroke of twelve, drink. It will, I am told, be very fast.

  There is one other warning I must give you, and which you must consider alongside the danger you face. I do not know how much of our natures are linked to our Reclaimer gifts. It is probable that as they are stripped away, you will also lose some aspects of yourself that you treasure. Some of your quickness, perhaps, and cleverness. Perhaps even your natural curiosity. I cannot be certain, but there will be change to your essential self. It is a sacrifice, I know, but you will have safety and a normal life and a soul without the darkness of the Deceivers upon it. You will be able to love with joy.

  Helen stopped, and reread the warning. Lose one’s quickness and cleverness—would anyone choose that? She stared through the window at the leaden sky, feeling a terrible sense of foreboding.

  There is now a new truce with France, and your father and I have a plan to flee England and the Dark Days Club with you and your brother. We will find a place on the Continent where we can live in some kind of safety. Where I can search for a way to rid myself of Benchley’s darkness, or at least save what is left of my eternal grace. I will not lose the ability to love you and Andrew or your dear father, not for any duty. Not even for my country. But then, if you are reading this, it is almost certain that our plan failed. I know that I leave you in danger again, and it makes me heartsick. Yet I gain some comfort in the thought that you may have the miniature and a way to escape what I coul
d not.

  Save yourself, Helen.

  With my everlasting love,

  Your mother,

  Catherine Wrexhall

  Helen gave a soft moan. Now she knew why her mother had been named a traitor. She had refused the role that the Dark Days Club and the Home Office had forced upon her, and had planned to flee. She had turned her back on her country to save her family. No wonder the Queen had said, Sometimes there is no good choice.

  A KNOCK ON the door lifted Helen’s head from a third reading of the letter.

  At some point during the second, she had lit a candle and propped herself against the headboard of her bed, knees drawn to her chest, miniature clenched in one hand and the letter held in the other to save it from her tears. Now, staring at the door, she felt frozen in that position, as though she might break if she moved.

  “Who is it?” Her voice had dried into a croak, and her pelisse and gown were hopelessly creased. If it was her aunt, she would have to claim the female malady.

  “It is Darby.”

  “Come.”

  Darby bustled into the room and closed the door. “My lady, Mrs. Grant wishes me to tell you that Cook has made your favorite apple tart for luncheon.” She stopped midway between door and bed. “My lady, are you ill? Shall I fetch help?”

  “No.” Helen motioned her closer. “I have received a letter from my mother, Darby. It came via the Queen.” She gave a curt account of its delivery and then held out the sheets of paper. “Read it.”

  Darby’s cheeks reddened. “I am not quick at reading, my lady.”

  Helen shook her head—it did not matter—and pressed the letter into her maid’s hands. She watched as Darby slowly read Lady Catherine’s words, their import building into a soft, horrified gasp as she reached the end. “Oh, my lady.” Darby looked up from the pages. “His lordship should have told you about the darkness.”

  “Yes, he should have.” Helen reached for the letter, needing her mother’s words, her mother’s love, back in her hands. “Darby, I overheard a conversation between Lord Carlston and Quinn after we saved Jeremiah. It did not make sense at the time, but now I think Mr. Benchley has proposed a plan to his lordship: to use me in the same manner as he used my mother.”

  Darby pressed her hands against her chest, as if her heart hurt. “Do you really think his lordship would do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Darby shook her head. “I cannot believe it, my lady. Not Lord Carlston.”

  “My mother says he is not to be trusted, and I have seen the darkness in him.” Helen rubbed her swollen, burning eyes. “What do we know of him after all? That he is accused of killing his wife. That he was mentored by a monster.”

  “He saved Jeremiah,” Darby said, a soft note of defiance in her voice. “And Mr. Quinn is a good man. He trusts his lordship.”

  Helen smiled bleakly. “A character reference from a servant who stabs his master in the hand.”

  “It is his job, my lady, and he is a protector of children and . . .” She sighed—an acknowledgment of her own doubt—and gestured to the miniature. “Will you use it, my lady?”

  “I don’t know.” Helen balanced the portrait on her palm. So much power in such a tiny gold case. “If I do, Darby, you will not be a Terrene.” She rubbed her thumb across the glass that shielded the checkerboard of hair. And what would she, herself, be? A vapid girl with no sense or curiosity, with nothing special about her except forty thousand pounds?

  “That does not matter, my lady,” Darby said. “You know I will follow you in whatever you do. Whatever decision you make.” She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But if you do use it, your mother says it will change you. Forever.”

  Helen nodded at the echo of her own fear. “I must speak to his lordship,” she finally said. “Tomorrow.”

  “But surely you will not go to the hanging,” Darby said vehemently. “Not after this.”

  “I must,” Helen said. “People will be at risk.” She looked at her maid’s mutinous face. “I gave my word I would be there. And I need to know the truth.”

  LATER, WHEN DARBY left the room to collect heated water for the washbasin, Helen forced her stiff body to move to her writing desk. She unlocked the desk hatch and retrieved her copy of The Magus from its position next to her confirmation Bible and the current edition of Old Moore’s Almanack. A flick through The Magus quickly found the required page: “Of Sorceries.” Helen slid her mother’s letter into its new hiding place and closed the book. She slotted it back on the shelf, her hand hovering before the spine of Old Moore’s. Her mother had said the alchemy must be used at a full moon. She pulled out the almanack and leafed to the moon pages, running her finger down the phases for May 1812.

  Of course, she already knew the answer: the next full moon was on the twenty-sixth. If she was going to use the miniature to strip herself of her Reclaimer abilities, it would have to be at midnight at her own ball. On the anniversary of the news of her parents’ death. She replaced the almanack, closed the desk hatch, and turned the lock. A grimly appropriate date, she thought as she pressed the key back into its spring-loaded secret compartment.

  Twenty-Four

  Monday, 18 May 1812

  HELEN SAT FORWARD on the worn seat of the hackney carriage and pressed her fingertips against the side pins that secured her veil. She peered through the fine Mechlin lace at the passing shop fronts, trying to ignore the overwhelming aroma of fresh bread in the cabin; whoever had hired the carriage before her must have been carrying a new-baked loaf.

  Across from her, Darby sighed. “Heavens, that smell makes me feel hungry. I should have brought some food for us, my lady.”

  Helen shook her head. How could Darby even think of eating? So far, the morning had gone as planned, but she still felt sick with anxiety.

  They had arrived at Hyde Park Corner at daybreak to find Bernard, one of the senior grooms, waiting with Circe at the start of Rotten Row. Helen had galloped the mare for twenty minutes, with Bernard riding his hack close behind, while Darby watched from the path. She had then handed Circe back to the groom with the instruction to tell Barnett that she would walk for a while before breakfast. All as smooth as silk. Hailing the hackney on Park Lane had been easy too, although the driver had warned her that going anywhere near Newgate Prison that morning would be difficult. But now they were on their way, and that meant she was getting closer and closer to Lord Carlston. And closer to the truth.

  “Darby, are you certain you cannot see my face?” she asked, patting the pins again.

  “Yes, my lady. Your features are not clear at all. I anchored the veil hard into your hair. It won’t come off.”

  The veil had been a last-minute addition under her riding hat: a disguise for the walk to Lord Carlston’s hired room. It would be a disaster if someone recognized her in the crowd. Helen knitted her fingers together in her lap and prayed: Lord, please don’t let Andrew or the Duke see me today.

  The carriage made its slow way along High Holborn. A remarkable number of people, mainly men, were spilling from the pavements in front of the carriage and walking on the sides of the gravel road toward Newgate, heads hunched into collars against the drizzling rain. Helen heard their driver curse loudly as a group of young bucks cut in front of his horses. They yelled back, their remarks lost in the sound of the wheels and the shouts from a line of oystermen turning a profit from barrels on the corner. A solid wall of people and red-coated soldiers blocked one side of Snow Hill and the mouth of Skinner Street. It was going to take a while to negotiate their way closer to the prison.

  Helen sat back again, her hand finding the edge of the riband under the collar of her riding habit; she had hung the miniature around her neck for safekeeping. She would honor her promise today and help his lordship find the Deceivers in the crowd. After that, she did not know what she was going to do. She laid
her palm against her chest, feeling the hard oval under the olive wool. Did he still want her to fight at his side, or did he now intend to use her as a vessel for his own darkness? It was the first thing she must find out. And even if he did want her to fight, did she actually want to join the Dark Days Club?

  She had a way out now. She pressed harder on the miniature beneath her coat. It was an impossible choice: a safe life with a family of her own, but with part of her essential self destroyed and a duty abandoned; or a life using all of her gifts in the service of mankind, but filled with loneliness, danger, and the prospect of madness. Nor did it make it any easier to know that one life possibly held the Duke of Selburn, and the other Lord Carlston.

  “My lady,” Darby said, “I am not sure we are going to get through Smithfield. There are already so many people about.”

  “I know. We will just have to get as close as we can.”

  Darby pointed out of the window. “Oh, my lady, look!”

  A large placard came into view, carried on a pole by a soldier. Helen read the inscription painted in black letters:

  BEWARE OF ENTERING THE CROWD!

  REMEMBER, THIRTY PERSONS WERE

  CRUSHED TO DEATH BY THE CROWD

  WHEN HAGGERTY AND HOLLOWAY WERE EXECUTED.

  “Well, that is to the point, isn’t it?” Helen said.

  They turned into Cow Lane, inching behind a line of other coaches. Helen slid along the seat and peered out of the opposite window, her veil softening the colors and shapes of the street and buildings. The first lane through to Giltspur Street was full of chattering, yelling people. No room for a coach even to push its way through. If the next was in the same state, she and Darby would have to get out and make their way on foot.