A Proper Education for Girls (45 page)

She reached the collection of suits of armor. There were thirty-four of them altogether—one of the largest collections of armor on display anywhere in the country, her father was pleased to declare. The suits of armor usually stood in proud ranks on either side of the corridor that led from the conservatory to the foot of the stairs. Since the gathering of artifacts in the ballroom for the meeting of the society, however, their uniform rows had been disturbed, and they were now gathered about in groups of five or six, leaning against one another drunkenly, as if about to burst into song or sharing a lewd joke. One or two of them were prostrated upon the floor, as though they had passed out altogether. Lilian threaded her way forward, emerging at the foot of the stairs beside the first of
the twelve grandfather clocks. A dark shape lay before them on the ground—another suit of armor, perhaps toppled over during the mass departure from the house of the members of the Society. Lilian raised her lamp, so as to avoid tripping over it. But the lamplight revealed that it was not a suit of armor at all. A jury of twelve grandfather clocks loomed impassively over the body of Dr. Cattermole.

Lilian stepped forward. She raised her lamp higher, so as to get a good look at him. He was sprawled like a burst sack of laundry, his legs and arms spread wide. One of his shoes had come off, and Lilian noticed a thick yellow nail poking from a hole in the end of his stocking. A few telltale crumbs of Bakewell tart adhered to the lapels of his coat. Was he dead? It seemed so. His eyes were open but sightless, his face a furious shade of crimson, as though he was enraged at being caught out by something as simple as a poisoned cake. The twelve silver clock faces looking down at him betrayed no more regret than Lilian's did, and their ticking echoed around his corpse like the clicking of twelve disapproving tongues.

Lilian abandoned Dr. Cattermole and began to climb the stairs. She knew he had taken Alice to the top story: she had followed him up there with her tray of Bakewell tart and tea.

From the window on the first-floor landing Lilian was at last able to see the artificial volcano. It was the first opportunity she had had to see what was happening outside at the front of the building, and she could not help but gasp and take a step backward at the sight. The wide apron of parkland in front of the house, which two hours previously had appeared to be no more than slightly disturbed, had reared up like a gargantuan mole hill. The grass upon it had withered and turned brown, and the earth itself appeared to be pouring with smoke and flickering with red, dancing flames. Even as Lilian watched, the ground buckled and heaved once more. Lumps of it were flung this way and that, as though from the furious stirrings of a dragon beneath. Down the sides of this great abscess of soil and turf huge cracks had appeared, revealing a suppurating crimson mass of boiling iron and sulfur. Orange, puslike matter
flowed in steaming rivers in all directions. The center of the volcano spouted jets of yellow steam and sprayed the air with sparks, ash, and cinders. All around it black-clad figures—those members of the Society for the Propagation of Useful and Interesting Knowledge who had not already fled—ran amok like demons. In the midst of the confusion one figure stood still, his arms outstretched before the scene as though summoning Beelzebub himself. Lilian recognized the broad back of her father, at his side the hunched and shambling figure of Sluce. Even from her vantage point she could see that her father's shoes were thickly encrusted with crystals of sulfur, while a tinge of yellow, illuminated by the blazing plumes that burst, periodically, from the weeping ochre fissures in the earth, covered his hair and beard like a veil.

All at once an explosion shook the window. Lilian leaped backward in alarm. Was the thing about to blow up completely? But the scene outside remained unchanged in its madness. And then Lilian found that she was standing in the middle of a whirling snowstorm. Was she going insane? She reminded herself that anything was possible in her father's house. One thing was certain, however: it could not possibly be snowing indoors. She held out her hands in astonishment. In no time at all her arms, her shoulders, her head, and fingers were covered in gentle white flakes. Lilian spluttered a few of them out of her open mouth, blinking them out of her eyes and coughing as they stuck in her throat. Feathers. She looked up. They were falling from the top of the house in a blizzard of gray and white. It had to be Alice.

Lilian raced up the stairs, two at a time. The display cases and furniture, the statues and models and machines that she flew past were now enveloped in soft white drifts. A cloud of down stirred and danced about her ankles in swirling eddies as she rushed onward and upward. At the top of the stairs, a shattered and twisted door hung from a single hinge. Lilian stopped, trying to get her breath back. Tears sprang to her eyes as she choked on a lungful of feathers. And then, through the final whirling wisps, Alice stepped forward. In her hand, she held a splintered billiard cue.

A
LICE STARED AT
the tall slim man with feathers in his hair and on his coat and blanched. Had Dr. Cattermole roped in some other assistant to help him with his dreadful purpose?

“It's me,” croaked Lilian. A mouthful of feathers prevented her from adding anything more.

“Lilian!” The billiard cue slipped from her fingers as she ran forward.

Mr. Blake, who had been chattering excitedly after their success with the ether, watched in silence as Alice and Lilian stood before him in an embrace. He could see that Alice had forgotten about him completely, so engrossed was she in her sister's return. He eyed Lilian jealously as she stroked her sister's hair and kissed her. Really, he thought irritably, he was supposed to be betrothed to Alice and she had never allowed him such lingering embraces, such fond kisses. The sisters held hands, whispering to one another like lovers, so that Mr. Blake was obliged to clear his throat to attract their attention.

Alice turned to him. “Oh, yes,” she said. “This is Mr. Blake. The photographer. Mr. Blake, this is Lilian, my sister.” Mr. Blake noticed dejectedly that she had not let go of Lilian's hand.

“We are engaged to be married, your sister and I,” said Mr. Blake.

Alice laughed. “I don't think so.”

Mr. Blake cleared his throat again. “If it's because I gave you up to Dr. Cattermole, I can assure you that was simply—”

“It has nothing to do with that,” interrupted Alice. “Come, Mr. Blake. You want a woman you can flatter, a woman who delights in your gallantries and whose feminine charms are more visible than mine. We have been friends, good friends, but that's all.” She shrugged. “We don't need each other anymore, you and I. You know it's for the best.”

Mr. Blake opened his mouth to object, but as he could think of nothing to say that might refute this, he closed it again.

“You need to leave here,” said Alice briskly. “As soon as possible. Once you are back in London, once the memory of this place has faded, you will think you had a lucky escape.”

“No, I won't,” said Mr. Blake thickly. “I won't forget.” But he knew that he would. Everyone forgot in the end. “You can at least allow me to take a photograph. To remember you by.”

“You don't need to remember me. I don't want to be remembered. And certainly not like this.”

“We should leave,” said Lilian.

“How would you like me to remember you, then?” insisted Mr. Blake. He glared at Lilian.

“I don't know,” said Alice. She regarded her sister, admiring her short hair and neatly trousered legs.

“Come on,” urged Lilian, pulling her sister's hand.

Alice hesitated. She looked down at her skirts. They ballooned like the full sails of a galleon about her legs. “I suppose there's no reason why you shouldn't take my photograph,” she said to Mr. Blake. “It's the least I can do for you.”

A
LICE
, L
ILIAN, AND
Mr. Blake emerged through the trapdoor onto the roof.

“Do you still come up here?” said Lilian, squeezing her sister's hand.

Alice nodded. “Of course.”

“I've been up here too,” said Mr. Blake. “Many times. With Alice.”

The red and yellow kimono billowed about his shoulders as the wind plucked and tugged at the silken fabric. Fortunately the weather had turned warmer at last, and he did not feel cold (not much, anyway), despite having given all his woolen underthings, his shirt, waistcoat, and breeches to Alice. How persuasive the Talbot sisters were when they worked together, he thought crossly. No doubt he was lucky that the display case containing the Japanese kimono was close at hand; otherwise he might well be standing there
wearing nothing at all. Still, he had to admit that his clothes fitted Alice perfectly and she looked very well in them too. Once the trappings of femininity had been removed—her corset, her dress and petticoats—why, when she cut her hair off no one would know the difference. The pictures he had taken had turned out well. Perhaps Mr. Talbot would like one, to add to his now extensive collection of photographs.

“I don't think this is a very good idea,” he shouted, struggling grimly to secure the sash of the kimono about his waist.

“It's a perfectly excellent idea,” cried Alice.

Mr. Blake cast her a sulky look. He frowned at Lilian and shook his head disapprovingly. “As you wish,” he muttered. He pushed past her and led the way through the wind and the chimneys across the rooftop.

The flying machine had undergone some modifications since Alice had last sat inside it. It was longer and sleeker. Its canvas sides had been repaired and a second seat had been fitted.

“Get in,” she shouted in Lilian's ear.

Lilian stared at the contraption. She pointed to the hole in the body between the wings. “In there?”

“Yes, in there,” said Alice. “Don't be afraid.”

“I'm not,” said Lilian. She eased herself into the flying machine, like an insect squeezing back into its pupa. Behind her, Alice and Mr. Blake secured the huge rubber band necessary to propel the machine into the air.

“Get in, then, Miss Talbot,” cried Mr. Blake into the wind, “if that's what you want to do. They say fortune favors the brave!” He gave a grudging smile.

Alice hugged him tightly. “Thank you, dear Mr. Blake.” He felt her lips against his, the tickle of her hair against his face, and then she was climbing the ladder to squeeze into the front seat. Mr. Blake watched as Alice pulled Mr. Bellows's cooking pot onto her head and secured it with a scarf. She held her thumb up. Mr. Blake nodded, and then he began winding the machinery that would catapult the flying machine into the air.

A
LICE FELT THE
machine inching backward across the roof. It seemed to take forever, to be hardly moving at all—really, she thought, could Mr. Blake not work any faster? At last, it stopped. She looked back into Lilian's laughing face and smiled. She searched for Mr. Blake, to shout her thanks, but he was hidden from view by the tail of the flying machine and she could not see him.

And then all at once they were racing across the rooftop, the machine shaking and clattering beneath them, the wind screaming in their ears. They hurtled between the chimney pots and rocketed up the launching ramp and then with a jolt and a bounce they were heading up and out, into the night.

Alice looked back. The moon was round in the sky, and by the light of it she could see Mr. Blake running to the edge of the roof, his mouth moving in a silent shout good-bye. Far below, the volcano roared and spluttered. She could see their father still standing before it, the members of the Society for the Propagation of Useful and Interesting Knowledge moving like scattered deer across the park. And then Alice pulled on a lever. She could see Mr. Blake watching the flying machine as it wheeled out across the park and over the trees, as it banked and turned on a current of air, to pass one last time over the roof of the great house. She saw him wave his arms, his kimono flapping wide as the wind caught it and gleefully tore it open. And then even he had disappeared into the darkness, and all that lay before them was the stars.