Fog Season

by Patrice Sarath

“A priceless fabric. Do you make your own dresses?”

  Her cheeks flushed even higher. “Is it a failing if I do not? A merchant’s daughter is not a lady, Mr Fresnel. We are well-acquainted with the price of hard work and the value of labor, and we also know that it’s better to pay for expert hands than to ply our own at a trade for which we are ill-suited.”

  She was beautiful and sad, and she had followed him here. No doubt she thought it was coincidence. Abel knew better. This was his doing. He had forged this link with her in that single ill-fated handshake. An unintended consequence of his skill; some of Doc’s Harriers exploited it. He could tell himself he had not wanted this to happen, but he knew he was lying.

  He wanted to wind his fingers around hers, and with his other hand pull her toward him, and know everything about her, including her desire. He kept his hands where they were.

  “I don’t devalue you,” he said. Her eyes flicked up to him, and back down at the old newspapers, and she licked her finger and turned the page. “You aren’t flawed.”

  A laugh. “I’m human, Mr Fresnel. Of course I’m flawed.” Bitter, now. “And I pay for my clay feet every day of my existence.”

  “He’s a fool,” Abel said.

  “I was the fool,” she said. “He showed me who he was from the start. I chose not to believe. He could not possibly be how he presented himself.” She shook her head. “And here I am, paying for my firm misconception that no one could possibly be that – indifferent to kindness.”

  “I’m another kind of mistake,” he warned. “Worse than the wrong husband.”

  “At least I will have chosen you with my eyes open,” she said. She looked directly at him. She reached out and took his hand, closing her fingers around it.

  Abel stiffened as he was flooded with her need and desire, battering against his own, and emphasizing it, as his particular talent was wont to do. How long had it been since he’d allowed himself to open up to a woman? How long since he had felt anything other than indifference? For this very reason – that his energy, amplified by Doc’s ministrations, would also amplify desire – he had kept himself shut off from love.

  She’s a mistake too, he told himself. Don’t do this. He twined his fingers around hers. Mindful of the old man, he didn’t lean forward to kiss her sweet, inviting mouth. He guided her hand back to the page and placed it there.

  “I’m at the Bailet on the Esplanade. Room Twenty-three. I’ll leave now.”

  He did, leaving her behind, throwing a glance at the old man. The old codger hadn’t moved, and by that Abel knew he had heard every word.

  He had been pacing in his room for half an hour, hoping she would show up, knowing it was foolish to hope, wishing with all his body that she would come, and with each passing minute more and more sure that she had come to her senses for the both of them. He cursed himself, cursed her, hated his weakness and hers, and wished Jax Charvantes to the devil for having the nerve to abuse and berate his hopeful young wife.

  A small knock came at the door and he took two giant steps to the door, wanting to throw it open and drag her in, but his hard-won caution came to the fore. He palmed his small pistol and opened the door a bit. There she was, wet and bedraggled, a scarf over her fashionable bonnet and long overcoat, concealing the wealthy young woman beneath it all. Her eyes were wide and large in her cold wet face, but they burned with exhilaration. He opened the door and pulled her in, closed it behind her and gave in, kissing her with abandon. She gave a little cry against his lips and pressed herself against him.

  They shed their clothes in a fury and fell upon the narrow bed.

  Everywhere his hands touched her he could feel her overwhelming emotion and the outline of her thoughts. All of it was focused on him, on her own need, on their total desire. Abel was consumed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Miss Mederos!” Idina TreMondi, the younger daughter of Alve TreMondi, called out to Yvienne, waving excitedly from down the street from the Mederos office. Standing in the doorway, Yvienne waved back, keeping as cheerful a mien as possible. The TreMondi family, all warmly dressed against the damp weather, hurried down the wet cobblestones toward the open office door. It was a scramble to get everyone inside, chased by a nasty squall off the harbor, and their entrance was a confused tangle of umbrellas, and breathless thank-yous, and please just put your coats here, and I’m so glad you could come.

  With waterproofed coats hung up and umbrellas left in the portico and the front office full of the TreMondis, their mother, and their current governess, Miss Clairett, the office seemed rather smaller than Yvienne had ever noticed before.

  “This is where you work?” Dubre demanded, turning in circles, his eyes wide with awe.

  “This is it,” Yvienne said. “We have a view of the harbor, and we log all the ships that come in, and their cargo. Then when our cargo comes in, it goes straight to our warehouses, and thence to the buyers.”

  He peered out the window at the harbor, barely visible in the slashing rain. “Which are your ships?”

  “Ah, that’s a story,” Yvienne said. “Some say our ships are at the bottom of the ocean, sunk by a massive storm. But, in fact, our ships were stolen and their cargo diverted, and now my mother and father have sailed off to bring them back. Tea, Mrs TreMondi?”

  She had been predisposed to like Mrs TreMondi when she had first met her, but now Yvienne wondered how much the woman knew. Her husband was at the house that fateful night. As part of the Guild’s inner circle, he had to have some hand in the fraud that hobbled House Mederos, though he had not been found guilty.

  She was gratified to see Mrs TreMondi’s expression turn pained at her forthright explanation, but the woman made no other acknowledgement.

  “Thank you. Tea would be lovely on a day like today.”

  “And hot cocoa for the children,” Yvienne said. The office had a small pot-bellied stove that kept off most of the chill and served to keep a kettle on for the clerks and the family. She turned to it to busy herself.

  “Mrs TreMondi, should the children have cocoa twice in one day?” said Miss Clairett disapprovingly, perhaps because she knew Yvienne had been her immediate predecessor. Establishing her territory, Yvienne thought. Immediately the younger children began to tease.

  “Oh Mama, it’s so cold!” Idina objected.

  “I don’t need to have cocoa at bedtime,” Dubre said.

  “I will have tea, if I may,” said Maje, the eldest. She looked the most like her father, and it seemed as if she had already formed a deep attachment to the forms of etiquette that guided Port Saint Frey society. Poor kid, Yvienne thought.

  Mrs TreMondi immediately waved away Miss Clairett’s concerns. “Oh goodness, it won’t harm them any. In Miss Mederos’s office, she may feed the children as she pleases.”

  That was interesting – Mrs TreMondi was most particular regarding her children’s diet.

  “I certainly don’t mean to corrupt them, but as hot cocoa in Fog Season is my favorite indulgence, I’m afraid I can’t set a good example,” Yvienne said with a laugh. She stirred the cocoa, added a dollop of cream to each, and handed round the cups. “Now you all sit here and I will tell you everything about what we do.” She looked over at Miss Clairett and saw the woman give the cocoa tin the merest glance, but in that glance. Yvienne saw longing. She was older than Yvienne by about ten years, a stick-thin woman with mousy hair and a plain mouth. She is me, were I to have finished my years at Madam Callier’s, with no prospects save my own brains. She continued with her introduction to the business of House Mederos, but with no further word she handed over a cup of cocoa and cream to Miss Clairett, and turned away before the woman could object.

  “If you have no ships, what does your House do?” Dubre asked.

  “Dubre, you are being very forward in your questions,” Miss Clairett said nervously.

  “No, it’s quite all right, Miss Clairett. They are here to learn,” Yvienne
said. “We still handle cargo for other companies, and we buy and sell commodities on the exchange. And we will get our ships back, and build new ones, and then it will be as if nothing ever happened.” She looked straight at Mrs TreMondi. Take that back to your husband, if you dare. Mrs TreMondi could not hide her emotions – a flare of anger narrowed her eyes.

  “So House Mederos was not injured by the Great Fraud, after all.”

  “Injured? Yes. Defeated – no. Nor will we ever be.”

  “And yet, the Houses accused of taking part in the fraud – they may be diminished by this act. If there were no lasting harm, should there be a lasting punishment? Would not House Mederos wish to forgive its old enemies for the sake of trade that benefits all?”

  Ah, Yvienne thought. House TreMondi got grabby, and got its fingers burned. Was Mrs TreMondi asking for leniency?

  “I think that is up to my parents to decide, Mrs TreMondi.” And the seas would boil away to desert before my mother would ever forgive.

  “My people have a law,” Mrs TreMondi began. “That if the victim agrees, a certain payment could be made to make them whole again. It’s quite common, and very useful, to forestall any grudges that could impact future generations.”

  Did Mr TreMondi know that his wife had come to make a deal? Everyone was silent, watching them – the children were very aware that something serious was happening, and Miss Clairett had an expression of sincerest horror.

  “I don’t know that Port Saint Frey could adopt the laws of a foreign nation,” Yvienne said at last. “The fraud against my House was a criminal suit, and in such matters the city brings the charges. The Houses involved broke the laws of the city. As for influencing the Guild or the Houses involved, that would be my parents’ decision, not mine.”

  “So it’s out of your hands,” Mrs TreMondi said. She set down her cup. “It has been most enlightening. Most enlightening. Children, we’ve imposed on Miss Mederos’s hospitality far too long. We must be going.”

  “But we’ve only just got here!” Dubre cried, receiving a fierce glare from Maje.

  Over Dubre’s outcries and Idina’s pleas, Miss Clairett hastened the children into their fine waterproofed coats. Young Maje curtseyed to Yvienne and thanked her.

  “Thank you for your visit,” Yvienne responded. “Please come any time for as long as you like. And how is your music progressing, Maje? I do admit I miss hearing you play. You are quite talented.”

  Solemn Maje gave her a genuine smile. “I’m playing for Papa’s birthday party! Perhaps you will come then! It’s to be a great party.”

  Mrs TreMondi gave a laugh that she tried to cover up. “Maje! Papa’s birthday party is to celebrate Papa, not you! Miss Mederos, I apologize–”

  “Not to worry,” Yvienne said as cheerfully as she could muster. The only way I would come to Alve TreMondi’s birthday party is as the Gentleman Bandit. Now there was a tempting idea. She thrust it back down where it belonged.

  There came a jangling at the door, and Inigho Demaris poked his head in. “Hello, Yvi– Miss Mederos,” he began as he took in the crowd. His eyes lit up. “A party!” he said.

  “Inigho, come in out of the wet,” Yvienne said. “Mrs TreMondi, may I introduce Mr Demaris?”

  “Delighted,” Inigho said. He bowed to her, droplets falling off his walking cape.

  “Very nice to meet you,” Mrs TreMondi said. “I had the pleasure of extended conversation with your mother at Mrs Charvantes’s salon the other day.”

  “Talked your ear off, did she?” Inigho said frankly. “I’m sorry. And who is this?” He bowed to Maje as the eldest daughter and though she reddened, she managed a very correct curtsey.

  “Maje and Idina were my pupils during my governess tenure,” Yvienne said without batting an eye. “Dubre escaped my clutches only because he went to the Academy.”

  “Ah, an Academy boy, are you?” Inigho said. “Do you boys still carve your name in the pine grove on the west side of the pitch? You’ll find the initials ID about five feet up, shot out of a crudely drawn cannon.”

  He turned to Yvienne. “Miss Mederos, I saw you were working and thought I would pop in and discuss that contract.”

  “Of course,” Yvienne said.

  “And we really must be going, as you have work to do,” Mrs TreMondi said. “Come, children. Miss Clairett. Miss Mederos, please consider our conversation if you will. Mr Demaris, my regards to your mother.”

  With that, the tumult of their arrival was reversed, with coats and umbrellas acquired and unfurled, and the family trooped out of the office, leaving Yvienne and Inigho alone amidst cups of cocoa on the desk and side tables.

  “Well,” Inigho said finally. “About that contract that we need to discuss.” He moved closer to her. “Are your clerks in?”

  “They’ve gone to their dinner,” Yvienne said. She felt a flutter in her abdomen. He pulled her toward him.

  “Good,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “We’ll get down to business without them.”

  He was so good at kissing, Yvienne thought, melting in his arms so thoroughly that she didn’t hear the door open behind her again. She heard the little shriek that Miss Clairett gave, though, and she and Inigho jumped apart to see the governess staring at them, a single glove in her hand. “I–” she began, and then thought better of it, fleeing.

  “Shit,” said Inigho, in a most unmerchantlike way, staring after her. “Yvienne – I am so sorry.”

  Yvienne sighed. “No, it’s not your fault,” she said. She smoothed back her hair and straightened her waistcoat and skirts, feeling unfairly irked at Miss Clairett.

  It’s just my luck.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There have been no further dispatches regarding the rogue cabbie preying on fares; the city force is silent upon the subject. The Chief Constable has given no official statement on whether his officers have given up all hope of apprehending the villain, or even if the attack were a figment of the unknown victim’s overactive imagination, as the Gazette’s sources strongly suggest. When asked if the report was in question, the Chief Constable, with his admirably straight jaw and erect bearing, responded only that the thing was under investigation. We think the Chief has not forgiven this reporter our earlier impertinence. ~~ No word of any ships, and we are all anxiously awaiting news of the Iderci Empress. In lighter news, are nuptials pending between the young heiress of House M and House D? – we are not sure what her parents have to say of such events, as they are off on an extended voyage.

  The Gazette

  That was quick, thought Yvienne with a sigh. Miss Clairett had wasted no time in spreading her news regarding the independent Miss Mederos. She set aside the morning paper and crunched into her toast, pale gold and soaked in butter and preserves, and the only thing better than Mrs Francini’s biscuits.

  Face it, she thought. You knew that just taking lunch with Inigho would set the city whispering all by itself. But she had hoped for a bit of respite before the full force of the Port Saint Frey society gossip mill descended on the family this time.

  “Thank you,” she said to Albero, who had replenished her coffee. As usual, she was the only one up. She had a meeting with the family solicitor, Dr Reynbolten, to go over Inigho’s contract, and then a meeting with Inigho himself, in his office this time. She felt a shiver of excitement at the coming meeting. Stop it, she scolded herself. Then she had to speak with Noe about her handler.

  Albero put the coffee back on the sidebar and straightened a dish unnecessarily, then stood at attention. He had little enough to do with just a household of three, and when he only had to serve one member of the house, he clearly felt at a loose end. She felt sorry for him.

  If I married, then we could fill the house, she thought. And just as suddenly she half-laughed, half-recoiled from the idea. The thought of it, marrying to keep the butler busy! And the idea of marrying Inigho; she had to admit she was far from taking that step.

>   “Albero,” she said, banishing the uncomfortable thoughts, and he jerked to attention, hoping to be of service.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “I only wondered what was happening with the dumbwaiter. Any word?”

  “It was installed by the Alcestri family, which runs the trades’ guild, Miss. I’ve sent word and they promised to have someone up here today to look at it.”

  “Good. You know, the odor has gotten worse, I’ve noticed. I’m afraid we may have vermin.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “We noticed that too, miss. The house under the previous owner was not well-run.”

  “Squatters very rarely look after things properly,” she said. Even she could hear her mother’s voice in her words, but she meant every bit of it. No doubt Trune jammed the dumbwaiter out of spite before he fled for his life and reputation.

  “Yes, miss,” Albero said. “Is there anything else this morning?”

  Yvienne drew a breath. “Please send for Noe, Albero. I’ll speak with her here.”

  He hesitated a fraction and then nodded. “Yes, miss.”

  To her credit, Noe did not creep. She entered with her head up and her eyes on Yvienne, though her face was pinched and red around the nose. She bobbed a curtsey. Albero closed the doors behind her and left them alone. Yvienne looked at the girl for a long moment, really seeing her. Noe had been skinny when she first came to service in her house, but with Mrs Francini’s good cooking she had filled out and her cheeks had warmed. She was still slight but her eyes were clear, and though she was quick to irritability Yvienne had seen her smile once or twice, brightening her eyes and her complexion, before her double life was revealed.

  Now she was as mousy and quiet as when she first came.

  “Noe, I don’t wish to make this any more uncomfortable for you than it has to be,” Yvienne began. “You shan’t be sacked, not if you do your work and listen to Mrs Francini and Mr Renarte. We’d like you to stay, just not to steal from us, or tell the family secrets.”