The Dark Days Pact

by Alison Goodman

  His voice dropped even lower, to a register that only a Reclaimer could hear. ‘We are to meet him two nights hence. In the Bear at Lewes.’

  Lud, a meeting at night in another town. Nevertheless, she met his eyes and gave the slightest of nods. At least it would all be over by Tuesday.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

  ‘I am.’

  She braced herself, and with a deep breath hauled him upward. She had expected to lift him a foot or so, but in one easy hoist she had him a good three feet off the floor.

  He looked down at her, eyes slightly bulging, his cravat and shirt bunched around his chin. She was shocked as well. Mr Hammond was at least one hundred and fifty pounds and, although she was using only one hand, she was not straining at all. Holy star, her strength must have increased in the last few days. Was that normal? She almost laughed at the thought. What was normal about a young woman lifting a man so easily from the ground?

  Delia stood and clapped. ‘Amazing! How wonderful to be so strong, and you did it with such ease.’ She peered up at Mr Hammond. ‘He seems to be rather red in the face.’

  ‘Oh!’ Helen lowered him abruptly back to his feet. ‘Forgive me, Mr Hammond. I was not expecting to lift you so high.’

  He lurched back, coughing. ‘Quite all right,’ he gasped, pulling at his cravat.

  Lady Margaret sprang from her chair and passed him a cup. ‘Here, Michael, take some tea.’

  ‘I do apologise,’ Helen said, hovering behind Lady Margaret.

  He shook his head and took a spluttering mouthful.

  Lady Margaret turned on Helen. ‘You have choked him! You are too careless.’

  ‘That is not fair, Margaret,’ Mr Hammond croaked. ‘Neither of us was expecting such …’ he cleared his throat, ‘such an increase in strength.’

  ‘Would you like some wine?’ Helen asked. ‘I shall call for some.’

  Lady Margaret waved her away. ‘You have done enough.’

  ‘Helen,’ Delia said, taking her hands and drawing her back across the room, ‘let him have some air.’ She dropped her voice. ‘And let her do her fussing.’

  ‘I did not mean to choke him.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Delia said, squeezing her hands. ‘You were just trying to help me make my decision. Well, I have made it. I do not want another girl to ever experience what I did with Mr Trent.’ She gave a grimace of resignation. ‘And in the end, I have nowhere else to go.’

  Helen looked into her friend’s face, searching for any kind of doubt. ‘Are you sure? It is not an easy life.’

  Delia nodded. ‘I would be most honoured to serve as your aide.’

  Helen smiled. She was, of course, glad to have Delia by her side. Very glad. Yet within that bright elation ran a darker streak of foreboding. She had just persuaded her friend to enter a world of extreme danger. Delia was now her responsibility, and she already felt the weight of her friend’s soul upon her own.

  Delia cocked her head to one side. ‘Perhaps it is you who are not sure?’

  ‘No, I am very sure,’ Helen said quickly. She leaned forward and kissed Delia on one cheek and then the other, her friend’s fragrant white skin soft beneath her lips.

  Dear God, she added silently, please help me keep her safe.

  Chapter Six

  MONDAY, 6 JULY 1812

  Early next morning, Helen woke to hear murmuring in the adjoining dressing room. She rolled onto her back and concentrated on the soft voices. Darby of course, and Geoffrey the footman.

  ‘Lord Carlston is downstairs and waiting,’ Geoffrey whispered.

  ‘What is he doing here so early? My lady has not even had her morning chocolate yet.’

  Helen almost heard the footman shrug. ‘According to Mr Quinn, his lordship wants to start her training sessions earlier.’ He dropped his voice lower still. ‘Says she’s not progressing fast enough. Too frightened of her own power.’

  Helen drew in a sharp breath.

  ‘That’s not true,’ her maid said stalwartly.

  Dear faithful Darby. Yet the comment had stung with some kind of truth.

  ‘He’s got a cove with him from London, and bid me deliver these bandboxes to you. You’d best wake her.’

  Helen sat up, her night plait swinging heavily against her back. A man from London? She had no idea who that might be. The bandboxes, however, were not so mysterious: her gentleman’s garb. No doubt Lord Carlston would have given them to her yesterday if they had not quarrelled.

  Wretchedness prickled across her skin. He had not returned to the house after that unfortunate interview, and so had not witnessed both Delia and Darby swearing their official oaths of loyalty under the peevish direction of Lady Margaret, or joined the muted celebration that had followed. No one had commented upon his absence, although Helen had caught Lady Margaret watching the door throughout the evening. Now his lordship had arrived before breakfast to start training and with someone else in tow. A firm message, it would seem, that they were to push on as before with no acknowledgment of that energy that kept flaring between them. He wanted a focused, logical, nonsentimental trainee. Well, he would have exactly that.

  ‘Darby,’ she called.

  ‘There, she’s up now,’ her maid whispered. ‘And you’ve delivered your boxes, so off you go.’ ‘Yes, Mistress Chide.’

  ‘Cheeky monkey,’ Darby said, but Geoffrey was already retreating down the staircase.

  Helen heard the door closing and then five measured steps brought Darby to the dressing room doorway, a large rounded silhouette in the gloom.

  ‘Good morning, my lady.’ She bobbed a curtsey and headed to the window. ‘Geoffrey just delivered some bandboxes for you. From his lordship.’ She gathered two handfuls of the heavy velvet curtains and drew them back. ‘Shall I bring them in, or do you wish to have your chocolate first?’ She folded back the shutters and pressed them home with a soft clunk.

  Helen blinked in the sudden morning light. ‘Bring them in, please.’

  The long sleeve and bodice of Darby’s dress — a refashioned cast-off from Helen’s wardrobe — caught the sun in a show of chestnut pintucks and pleats. It was her maid’s best gown; she did not often bring it out for everyday wear.

  ‘Are you by chance going into town with Mr Quinn this morning?’ Helen asked, keeping her tone bland.

  Darby, bending to affix the shutter snib, twitched a shoulder. ‘As it happens, my lady, I am. He is teaching me to move expediently through a crowd.’ She lifted her head, cheeks pink. ‘He has also promised to take me for cake and tea after to celebrate my oath. If I have your permission?’

  Helen nodded, and received a beaming smile.

  ‘I’ll get the boxes, my lady.’ She hurried from the room.

  Helen flipped her plait over her shoulder and ran her fingers along its thick brown corrugations. The interest between Darby and Quinn was fast becoming fixed, but even with all the goodwill in the world, Helen could see no happy ending for her maid and the big Pacific Islander. They would always be the target of hateful words, and even foul physical missiles, slung at them by small-minded people outraged by a ‘brown savage’ touching a white woman. More to the point, there would be a day, heading towards them at a great rate, when all the training was done and Lord Carlston returned to his real Reclaimer duties with his Terrene at his side. Darby, of course, would stay with her, the two of them expected to stand on their own.

  Helen’s fingers stopped their restless runs, the thought of being on her own bringing an instant of breathless immobility. At least that alarming future was still some way off. She also had Delia now, although his lordship had clearly not approved of her as an aide. Helen closed her hand around the end of her braid. It did not matter what he thought; he had said it was her decision.

  ‘There is a note too,’ Darby said, emerging from the dressing room with two large bandboxes stacked together.

  ‘Put them here.’ Helen patted the blue silk coverlet.

  Darby placed t
he boxes on the bed and passed over the note.

  ‘That one first.’ Helen pointed to the box closest to her leg.

  Darby lifted the lid and pulled aside the packing paper. They both peered in. A pair of neatly folded pale buckskin breeches lay on top. As suspected, her male clothes. Now she would show his lordship space and purpose.

  Darby pulled the breeches out and placed them on the bed. Next came a pair of white silk evening breeches, a pair of braces, three linen shirts with collars attached, ten fine linen cravats, stockings and two waistcoats, one cream, the other striped in shades of burgundy. No metal buttons or hooks on anything of course; metal was a deadly pathway for a Deceiver’s energy.

  Helen regarded the wide array of clothing spread out on the bed. A true Reclaimer’s wardrobe. It was also a complete male wardrobe. Was Lord Carlston expecting her to live as a man? In truth, it would probably be more convenient for everyone; it was far easier to move around the world as a man than as a woman. Even more so for a Reclaimer. It seemed femininity was a definite disadvantage in this new dangerous world.

  She sat back against the pillows and broke the wax seal on the note from his lordship, spreading the paper. It was as curt as ever. She read it aloud:

  We are in the salon and await your appearance in your new clothes.

  Yrs,

  C

  ‘Not a man to waste words, is he, my lady?’ Darby remarked.

  Neither words nor emotions. Helen folded the note and laid it on the bed. ‘What is in the second box?’

  Darby brought out a day jacket of good-quality fir-green broadcloth, followed by a black evening jacket. Finally, packed tightly into the bottom, was a pair of slightly worn black hessian boots, a dull gold tassel hanging from each curved front.

  Darby picked up the top cravat from the pile and inspected the starched linen. ‘Mr Quinn has explained the intricacies of dressing a gentleman, my lady, and I have practised tying a number of cravat styles. I think we shall manage.’

  Helen threw back the clear side of the bedcovers and swung her legs to the ground. ‘Then let us get to it,’ she said in her best manly manner.

  Twenty minutes later in the dressing room, Helen rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the compression of her breasts under the tight band of wrapped calico. It was even more uncomfortable than the long stays she had worn for her Court presentation.

  Darby frowned. ‘I have bound you too tight. Shall I ease it?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘I imagine it will give with movement.’ She looked down at her flattened chest. ‘I never thought to say this, but it is fortunate that I do not have much bosom.’

  Darby picked up a linen shirt and shook out its folds. ‘Mr Quinn says I’d do well to get myself some men’s clothes too, from the rag trader. But can you imagine trying to squash these flat?’ She peered down at her generous curves. Helen winced in sympathy.

  ‘Hold up your arms, my lady.’

  Helen obeyed, closing her eyes as the shirt was deftly thrown over her head, and her arms guided into the generous sleeves. Three decisive tugs on its tails rocked her back on her heels as Darby drew the shirt efficiently over her hips. She looked down; the hem brushed her knees. Below, her shins and feet were as pale as the ivory linen.

  ‘Now,’ Darby said, stepping back, ‘according to Mr Quinn, the front goes back between a gentleman’s legs to … well … hold in his …’ She gestured at her crotch.

  ‘His masculinity?’ Helen supplied. She searched her new command of cant. ‘His plug tail? His sugar stick?’

  They looked at one another, each with lips pressed together to hold back the rising hilarity.

  Darby broke first, snorting a half-stifled giggle. ‘Sugar stick! That is a good one, my lady.’

  Helen, rather pleased with it herself, grinned and gathered up the linen. She pushed it between her legs, shifting her hips at the sensation of bulk and pressure. The only time she had anything in such a place was during her courses; how uncomfortable to have a wad of cloth there all the time.

  ‘Do you think we should pad out the front, my lady?’ Darby asked solemnly, although her eyes were still alight with laughter. ‘I have heard that some gentlemen assist nature with sawdust pouches.’

  ‘Truly?’ Helen asked, fascinated. She took a sidestep to the mirror and viewed her reflection critically. The area was rather flat, but she did not fancy wearing a bag of sawdust. ‘I think if I bunch most of the shirt forward, it will be enough.’ She made the adjustment. ‘What do you think?’

  Darby nodded her approval and readied the buckskin breeches. Helen stepped into them, grabbing the side of the bureau as Darby pulled the soft leather up over her hips and tucked the shirt into the waistband.

  She lifted the square of cloth at the front. ‘How does this work?’

  ‘We lace the waistband closed first,’ Darby said, matching words to action, ‘and then lift the drop-front and button that up over it. See?’

  Helen looked down at the buttoned flap. Very neat.

  ‘They are very tight over the leg,’ she said, glancing in the mirror again. ‘Heavens!’ All of her long thighs were on show, as was her newly enhanced groin.

  Darby was busy at the back of her waist, buttoning something into the waistband. ‘Dip your shoulders, please, my lady.’

  Helen complied, and each arm was expertly threaded through the canvas braces. Darby adjusted them over her shoulders, their hold like a ramrod at her back. No wonder gentlemen had such excellent posture.

  ‘All right,’ Darby said, drawing a deep breath. ‘We shall attempt the cravat.’ She held up the long length of starched muslin. ‘Mr Quinn says that we must first wind it around your neck and pull very tight to achieve a smooth column of white cloth.’ She stepped up to Helen until they stood face to face. ‘Chin up, my lady.’

  Helen craned back her neck. All she could see was Darby’s furrowed forehead as she slid the stiffened muslin inside the high points of the shirt collar. Her cool fingers smoothed the cloth against Helen’s neck, wrapped it around twice and, with a firm tug, brought the ends together. It felt as if a murderous hand had closed around her throat.

  ‘Too tight,’ Helen whispered.

  The pressure eased slightly and Darby’s earnest face bobbed up into Helen’s line of sight. ‘I’m sorry, I dare not loosen it any more, my lady, or it will droop.’ She deftly tied the tails of the muslin, then stepped back, hands on hips. ‘It is done. I think it looks very well.’

  ‘Might I lower my chin?’

  ‘A fraction.’

  Helen eased down her chin until she felt the stiff top of the column, her head still slightly cranked back. Now she understood that arrogant angle of chin found in most men of fashion. She looked in the mirror. A stylish bow nestled at the bottom of the column.

  ‘It is marvellous, Darby. Well done.’

  An uneasy thought came hard upon the heels of her praise. Without Darby’s expert help, how was she going to dress in these clothes again to meet Lowry?

  The jacket came next: a feat of inching into the tightly tailored sleeves and shoulders. Helen felt the start of a prickling sweat under her arms. She would have to enlist Mr Hammond’s help if she was to wear the jacket to Lewes.

  Finally, her stockinged feet were levered into the boots, Darby brandishing the boot-horn with brutal efficiency. Helen stood up, wriggling her toes. A good firm fit, although the long shaft of leather up to her knees and the small heel were unfamiliar.

  She walked across to the mirror again and considered her reflection. Somehow she looked even taller than her five feet nine inches; perhaps due to the enforced military posture and pugnacious tilt of her chin. Her legs seemed very long, and very, very exposed. She felt her gaze shifting away from such immodesty and forced herself to look back at the pale length of buckskin. Could she really stride out with her thighs on show for the world to see … let alone the area above them that seemed to be framed for display under the cut-away front of her jacket?


  She took a deep breath. All men wore breeches; no one would be focusing unduly upon the area. At least that cut-away front and the tails hid any curve of hip.

  She raised her eyes. The M-style collar of the jacket certainly gave the illusion of wide shoulders, and the cravat covered the lack of Adam’s apple and emphasised her strong jaw. It was only her long braid and the rather startled expression on her face that made her look feminine. She flipped the braid back over her shoulder, narrowed her eyes and firmed her mouth into a harder line. There: a young man stood before her. A slim stripling perhaps, without beard or experience, but with enough height and clean features to pass as a young provincial mister. A resounding success. Yet she had to admit it was a little humiliating to shift into the masculine with such ease.

  She shook off the thought. She should be glad that the costume worked so well. Here was something, at least, that his lordship or Lady Margaret could not criticise.

  She turned to Darby and made a small bow. ‘Well?’

  With an answering smile, her maid bobbed a curtsey. ‘I would not have warranted it, my lady, but you are a lad through and through.’

  Helen turned back to the elated young gentleman in the mirror. Maybe this would not be so difficult, after all.

  As expected, it was far easier to take manly, purposeful strides in a pair of buckskins than in a gown. Helen descended the stairs to the salon three at a time, just to test the new freedom and feel the odd sensation of so much cloth around her nethers. No wonder gentlemen took such big steps and stood with their legs apart. She stifled a smile at the irreverent thought and approached the salon.

  Geoffrey stood at his post outside the doors, his expression carefully neutral and his gaze fixed over her shoulder. Even so, Helen felt heat rise to her cheeks. He would surely have noted her thighs and graceless descent. Was he disgusted by her exposure or, even worse, delighted?

  ‘My lady.’ He opened the door. His expression did not change, but she caught something behind his well-trained visage. A new kind of respect.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, not only for the opened door.