Cold Stone and Ivy (15 page)

“Perhaps he helps Dr. Bond with ‘extracurricular business,’ sir?”

Williams lit a cigarette, blew the smoke out into the air.

“By God, you’re a cheeky thing.” He studied the young surgeon for a long moment. “Well, I think we can both agree that there are certain facets to obstetrics that might not be suitable for you.”

“Yes, sir. I know that, sir.”

“It’s not the morality of it, is it? The things we need to do for these poor unfortunates?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s an occupational hazard. The girls do what they can, but they can’t afford to keep the little bastards. They’d pop one out every nine months if Mother Nature had her way.”

“Yes, sir. I know that, sir.”

“Even the bloody parliament can’t make up its mind. A capital crime one sitting, our civic responsibility the next.”

Christien nodded. The legality of abortions was hotly debated in Parliament, with the government swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Williams called it his ‘extracurricular business’ — research for his Obstetrics Foundation. He was very skilled, very discreet, and a very busy man.

“Does it remind you of your mother, Remy? The night she died?”

“It must, sir, although I cannot say why. I don’t remember it at all.”

“It stands to reason.” Williams tightened his grim mouth. “Nonetheless, I’m sorry. I am a thoughtless lout.”

“No, sir. It’s not your fault. It was a very long time ago.”

“You were six?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Damn your father.”

“I have tried, sir. Believe me.”

He stared into the empty cup, the thin leaves stranded across the china. There were people who could read such leaves, he remembered. Gypsies and fortunetellers, mystics and clairvoyants. People like his brother. Sometimes he hated them all.

Williams continued to study him, the cigarette held aloft in one skilled hand.

“You are brave in joining the Club then, Christien. They want your father back.”

“I know, sir.”

“They think the locket is the key.”

“It’s just a locket, sir.”

“Do you keep it on you, boy?”

Christien kept his expression passive, like porcelain. John Williams. Personal physician to the queen and all the ladies of the royal family. He was friend to Edward, Prince of Wales and Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avon. He was, like Victoria’s dead husband, a member in good standing of the Ghost Club of Cambridge and London.

“No,” he lied. “It is in a safe at Lloyds.”

“Pity,” said Williams. “It’s a fascinating piece, eh wot? What do you think it does?”

“I couldn’t tell you, sir. Without the key, it is simply a bauble.”

“Hm. Bring it again on Friday night, will you? Crookes will be there. He’s itching to get that thing into his laboratory.”

“I will do that very thing, sir. Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Remy. And Remy?”

“Sir?”

“You don’t need to tell anyone about the girls you visit in here. You know that, yes?”

“Yes, sir. I know that, sir.”

The man blew out a thin stream of smoke. It drifted up and over his head.

“We’ll see you on Friday at eight.”

“Friday, sir.”

Williams was still watching as he closed the door behind him.

THE TEA SHOP
was tucked into a small house at the corner of a street at the bottom of a hill. It was called, strangely enough, “
A
Tea Shop,” with a very large “A” painted in red. It didn’t take long to realize that the sisters Helmsly-Wimpoll were not only odd but terribly clever, and she enjoyed their company immediately. It was a refreshing change from all the sobriety of Lasingstoke.

The sisters had been born and raised in Over Milling, had spent some time in Newcastle with wealthy relatives upon their coming out into society, but had eventually ended up back in Over Milling when, oddly enough, no offers of marriage were presented. But their spirits were not dampened, and they were the socialites of the town, knowing everyone’s business and, naturally, everyone’s secrets.

Fanny laid a gloved hand across Ivy’s sleeve. “And how is your mother, dearest? Have you really sent her to Lonsdale, like they say? You know it is a dreadful place, Lonsdale is.”

“Simply dreadful,” echoed Franny, and she popped an entire scone in her mouth. She had picked it clean of currants, and they sat like little flies on her plate.

“I . . . I’m afraid I did.” Ivy looked from one to the other. “Christien said Dr. Frankow was the best in the country . . .”

“Well then. I’m sure that he is.” Fanny sniffed, looked off dramatically. “He must be worth something then.”

“Muffming,” said Franny, with her mouth full of scone.

“He’s Edward’s mortal enemy, you know.”

“Mortal enemy?” asked Ivy. “Of Edward, Prince of Wales, Edward? That Edward?”

“The very one, dearest. Old Mechanical Bertie.”

“Mechanical Bertie,” said Franny after swallowing the scone.

Ivy frowned. “Mechanical Bertie” was one of the nicknames for Edward, Prince of Wales. He had survived an attempt on his life during a tour of India, which required the amputation of his right arm. Of course, being the heir apparent to the English throne, Edward had at his disposal the very best in medical treatment. His arm, elbow, and hand had been replaced by an artificial clockwork limb. It was fully operational, but left much room for wild speculation. It was often said that inside that mechanical arm were torpedoes, cannons, the crown jewels, and cigarettes.

“But why would a psychiatrist be the mortal enemy of the Prince of Wales?”

“There was a problem with national security, dearest,” said Fanny. “With the War Office. He was working on opening up new areas of the mind. What was it called, Franny?”

“Hypersensory Mental Acuity, Spiritualism, and Communion with the Realm of Departed Souls,” said Franny.

Ivy stared at her.

“For the wars, you know,” said Fanny. “For the progress of the Empire. And science is all about progress, isn’t it, dearest?”

Ivy frowned. “Do you believe that?”

“That science is about progress?” asked Fanny. “Of course it is.”

“No, sorry, not about that. About Frankow being an enemy?”

“Well, not at first,” said Fanny. “Frankow was the engineer of Mechanical Bertie’s arm, you know. But there was a problem some years later, and he was exiled up north. To Lonsdale.”

“To Lonsdale.”

“But, but why?” asked Ivy, completely bewildered now.

“Oh, dearest. You couldn’t have such a man running around performing horrific experiments on upstanding British citizens, now could you?”

“Experiments?” bleated Ivy, beating Franny to the punch.

“Don’t fret, dearest,” said Fanny, laying a hand across Ivy’s. “I’m certain he’s learned his lesson by now. Otherwise he would have been deported.”

“Bye bye,” said Franny.

“Deported?” said Ivy.

“To Slovakia,” said Fanny. “Dr. Frankow is a Czech, after all.”

“Oh yes,” Franny nodded. “Quite Czech.”

“They make them that way, in Slovakia, I’ve heard. Almost everyone there is automated. You’ve seen him, surely. All cogs and gears and metal shafts.”

“Oh my,” said Ivy.

“No, no dear. No Czech machine-man can be experimenting on any Englishman. Not under Victoria’s watchful eye. Not under any circumstances. Not anymore . . .”

“Whatever do you mean, not anymore?” asked Ivy.

“Why dearest, look what he did to de Lacey.”

“Poor de Lacey.”

“De Lacey? Which de Lacey? Christien or Sebastien?”

“Sebastien Laurent, my dear. Christien Jeremie is quite sane, is he not?”

“Is he sane?” asked Franny.

“Yes, but . . .” Ivy cocked her head. “What did Dr. Frankow do to Sebastien de Lacey?”

The sisters exchanged glances, suddenly becoming strangely reticent in their conversation.

“Please tell me,” Ivy said.

Fanny swallowed, looking suddenly young and frail. “You do love your Christien Jeremie, yes?”

Oddly, Franny said nothing, merely began picking the currants out of another scone.

“I
am
engaged to marry him,” said Ivy, wondering again why the question should keep coming up in conversations.

“And you are completely honest with each other?”

“Of course.”

“And has he told you how his parents died?”

“I . . . I never thought to ask.”

And now, like a very old friend, Fanny took Ivy’s hand. “Perhaps you should, dearest.”

“Oh you should,” echoed Franny, laying her hand now on top of Ivy’s.

They sat that way for a very long moment.

“But a wedding!” sang Fanny, breaking the spell. “Have you picked out your dress, dearest? We can help you with that, can’t we, Franny?”

“Oh yes, Fanny. We can help.”

“We have the best eye for fashion in the county.” Fanny sniffed. “Lancaster has good dresses. Preston even better. But if you’re in mind for a bit of a romp, I would suggest Chester.”

“Oh, Chester,” cooed Franny.

“Franny can drive, you know. She has her very own steamcar. It’s an antique, you know! Quite the little roadster!”

And the rest of the afternoon was spent in idle chitchat, with a goodly amount of gossip thrown in. When the tower in the centre of town chimed noon, Ivy Savage climbed into the coach, with clockwork conspiracies on her mind.

Of Anarchy, Library, and a Murder in Lancaster

SEPTEMBER 16, 1888

My dear Christien,

Over Milling is a charming town, almost entirely what I expected. I met two sisters—perhaps you know them. Fanny and Franny Helmsly-Wimpoll. I think we shall become fast friends. With caring for my mother, I haven’t had a friend in a very long time who wasn’t a copper.

I am feeling most dreadful strange after these past few days. I thought perhaps our luck was changing but after your dreaded Frankow and now, a hint of that aforementioned “scandal,” I do fear I will be taxed to remain much longer. I have half a mind to return to Lonsdale and retrieve my mother and see how I can manage as both daughter and wife. Please, consider it, Christien. I am sincerely torn.

You have not come as you promised. I understand the nature of your studies, but surely Dr. Bond and the boys can manage for a few days without you. If only you could petition for the use of your brother’s airship. Surely you could be here and back before you were even missed.

I do not know what to make of your brother. At times, he seems a fair and hearty fellow, but at others, I find myself unnerved and apprehensive. Rupert is prickly. I understand he was as a father to you, but still, he leaves much to the imagination.

The day has been heavy and I believe it will rain. Perhaps that will wash away my fears and leave me renewed.

I miss you, Christien.

Your Ivy

EXHAUSTED, CHRISTIEN DROPPED
into a wing chair by the fire in the study of Hollbrook House. The fact that there was no fire didn’t even occur to him and he was asleep before it could register in his mind.

Very soon, however, someone was pulling a blanket over his legs and he cracked an eye.

“Pomfrey,” he smiled.

“Sir, would you like me to start a fire, sir?”

Christien glanced at the black hearth. “God, yes, Pomfrey. That would be wonderful.”

“And some tea, sir?”

“Please.”

“And biscuits, berries, and clotted cream, sir?

Christien closed his eyes. “No, Pomfrey. Just the fire and the tea.”

The prim man studied him for a long moment. “Are you well, sir? Do you want me to call that horrible doctor fellow from next door?”

“Intern’s hours, Pomfrey. I’m quite convinced that it doesn’t matter your marks, simply whether or not you survive to the end, to become a surgeon nowadays.”

Pomfrey straightened. “Modern times are confounding to me, sir. What with these airships and steamcars and auto-men. I shall never employ an auto-man in the service of this house, sir.”

Christien smiled, eyes still closed.

“Furthermore, I am convinced that if man were meant to fly, God would have given him wings, not balloons. And oh my, don’t get me started on those contraptions they call steamcars . . .”

“Oh dear,” said Christien.

“Such noisy, malodorous inventions I could never imagine. A blight on the good name of the Empire. They do clog up the streets so. Terrify the horses and the good women. Why the chaos in the markets yesterday, all because a four-wheeled steamcar tipped over onto a booth of radishes. Gulls swooped down in the thousands, sir, and then the street dogs set about chasing the gulls, the shopkeeps set about chasing the dogs . . .”