Magnificent Devices [5] A Lady of Resources (16 page)

“Have you?” He led the way into the library, where he poured himself a thimbleful of spirits. “That is both brave and kind, to help your cousin in such a way.”

“The only trouble is that we cannot work for two more days, until after the scientists have gone.”

He poured another thimble. “Our loss is somewhat mitigated, then—I have been informed that the weather is too unpredictable and the entire party have put off the trip.”

Disappointment clashed with relief. “Then I shall not have to be your hostess?”

“Not for a few days. Why, were you nervous about it?”

She shook her head. “Between Lady Claire, Lady Dunsmuir, and the Landgrafin von Zeppelin, Maggie and I are well versed in etiquette. In fact, I think we could pour tea into a thimble balanced upon the nose of a spaniel and not spill a drop. No, I had been looking forward to it. I shall merely continue to do so.”

“Good. Well, I must catch up with the newspapers, now that I am to be at leisure today.” He settled into a chair, where the afternoon editions were already neatly stacked on a table at his elbow.

She hovered near the door. “Father, how did you hear that the scientists were not coming?”

He looked up, distracted, from the racing news. “I suppose I received a tube. I cannot remember, but I do remember feeling quite put out for your sake. I believe you missed your Lady Claire’s investiture today for nothing, to say nothing of the excursion to Newquay.”

There had been no tubes, and she had been listening all afternoon. “Does the estate manager’s house have its own tube address?”

“Hm? Of course, dear.”

“Then you got the news about the scientists there?”

“No. Here. What the deuce does it matter? I am trying to resuscitate my mind after a distressing afternoon looking at tumbledown tenants’ cottages, and I do not wish to be pestered.” He took a breath as he tried to control his tone. “Forgive me, my dear. I dislike a badly run show, and that is what this estate has become. Be an angel and go and tell Evan he may begin his experiments on—with—you as soon as he pleases.”

“Of course, Father.” She crossed the room to kiss him, but by the time she reached the door again, he had disappeared behind the paper.

Grimly, she took herself outside, where the wind was as fractious as a small child in a temper, slapping her skirts this way and that, and tugging on her hair.

Point one: Her father knew he had a cannon on the roof, and had overseen its construction himself in some detail.

Point two: There had been no tube. Either the scientists were coming still, or they had never been coming at all. What proof did she have, after all, that they were expecting guests? The servants had not been dashing about with bed linens and flowers, nor was there activity in the kitchen that would suggest the preparation of a large meal. The entire castle, in fact, seemed to be resting on its elbows in quiet relief after the Sorbonne set’s departure, not building up a head of steam to manage a new influx of guests.

Conclusion: Her father was lying to her in matters great and small. The question was, why? What was going on here at Colliford Castle … and why, she wondered with a chill as the clouds massed and hid the sun, had he maneuvered everything so that she was here all alone?

Evan Douglas, while taken aback at the change in plans, was quite willing to make adjustments and alter course. “If I do not have to waste the evening worrying about collar points and dessert forks, I can spend it preparing the mnemosomniograph. If you assist me, Lizzie, it is entirely possible that we could begin in the morning.”

While she had been looking forward to acting as hostess for the very first time, underneath it all Lizzie felt a loosening of tension. For if even one of the scientists brought up the subject of telescopes, she knew herself only too well. She would not be able to resist asking questions about it, and she would slip up, and then her father would know that she knew.

The fact that she knew nothing would not keep her out of trouble, if he was going to these lengths to keep the cannon a secret.

She spent the evening fetching and carrying for Evan, and then upon his advice, took a hot bath in the clawfoot tub and drank a mug of warm milk and honey in bed. This was supposed to calm her mind and clear the slate, as it were, for the experiments the next day.

A scientist might be able to go to sleep and save his dreams for the next day, but she was too excited about what might happen upon the dreaming table to do so. She fished a couple of books out of the bookshelf next to the bed to see if reading would help to put her to sleep. It often worked with history textbooks, to say nothing of philosophy.

They were children’s picture books.
Mother Goose. Little Playfellows. Aesop’s Fables
. And as she turned the pages, time seemed to recede and turn back on itself. It was not the same room, nor the same bed. But these were the same books.

Her books, Maggie’s books, from their life before.

She could almost feel the warm arms of her mother around her, almost hear the soft voice as she read Lizzie’s favorite, “The Ant and the Grasshopper.” She’d never had much patience with silly Grasshopper, when even tiny birds knew that you had to save up for the winter. Ant’s patient industry in the face of Grasshopper’s derision had stuck with Lizzie, even when she’d long forgotten its source. Maybe Ant was why she’d steal two pieces of bread when it was much more dangerous than one. Or hide a bit of cabbage or a wrinkled apple in the squat, just in case a day passed where they couldn’t scrounge enough for everyone.

Before long, the soft echo of her mother’s voice reading still in her mind, Lizzie fell asleep.

“Charles!” Lizzie woke with a start in the cozy cupboard bed where she and Maggie slept aboard the airship. Her mother had slid the doors shut so that if there was rough weather, they would not fall out. Lizzie loved the cozy space. Sometimes she and Maggie would play in here, though Mama would be very angry if she knew they had brought a candle in earlier to see by. Lizzie slid the door open a crack as their father strode into the cabin, where Mama was tidying up the books they had brought. She thought they were asleep. Maggie was, but Lizzie wasn’t.

“We did not expect to see you—how did you—”

“I imagine not. There are enormous advantages to owning laboratories that produce such things as velocithopters and aeroscopes. I simply landed upon the fuselage and entered via the ventral hatch. Our gallant captain does not even know his employer is aboard.”

“But why?”

“You are not a stupid woman, Elaine, and sadly, not a devious one, either. Did you think I would not follow you?”

“I do not know what you are talking about. I am simply taking the girls to visit my family. Why on earth would you follow us?”

“Via London?”

“I thought we might do a bit of shopping before we went down to Penzance. Really, Charles, the girls are asleep. May we continue this conversation elsewhere?”

“It does not matter now whether they sleep or not. Sit.”

“I shall not.”

“Sit, or I will make you.”

Mama’s navy-blue skirts rustled as she sank into the seat under the viewing port. “The speed of the velocithopter has addled your mind.”

“No, it has cleared it. I know what I must do. Whom have you told?”

“No one. I have nothing to tell anyone—with the possible exception of the clerk at Fortnum and Mason.”

Lizzie’s eye, pressed to the crack, widened as Papa pounced on Mama like Cinders the cat on a mouse. “Playing at ignorance will gain you nothing. You were listening at keyholes last night, weren’t you?”

“No. You are hurting me.”

“What did you hear?”

Mama muffled a shriek as Papa did something Lizzie could not see. Cold fear showered through her, held her immobile, surged in her small body like a wave.

“I heard you and your friends,” Mama gasped. “I—I cannot believe this of you. The Prince of Wales—and Prince George—why, he is hardly more than a boy!”

“They are heirs to a throne that is redundant—scions of a family that is rotten to the core.”

“You are mad.”

“I am perfectly sane. I am a patriot—one of many—charged with a sacred duty to England.”

“Assassinating a young man and his father is hardly sacred!” she snapped, then groaned when Papa twisted her wrists behind her back.

Why was Papa being so unkind to Mama? He loved her and brought her presents. And who was this boy who was causing all the trouble between them?

“When this country is a republic with a responsible government, you will see. Or perhaps not. Because I cannot allow you to betray me, you see, my dear. I cannot allow little birds to twitter to London magistrates and members of Parliament.”

“What are you going to do, lock me up?”

“No. That would be inhumane. Good-bye, Elaine. We could have been happy for many years if you had not run away.”

“I could not allow my girls to stay another moment in that house with you,” she hissed. “Beast. Madman. Murderer ….”

Lizzie swam out of the dream, choking and gasping. The sheets were damp and tangled around her legs, and she pushed them away frantically, trying to escape.

Escape. No.

She did not need to escape. She was safe in her room at Colliford Castle, and she had had a nightmare.

Lizzie slid out of bed and went to the window, where she opened the latch. Rain pattered on the stone sill, and the cool exhalation of the ground as it welcomed the moisture was scented with mint and lavender.

Safe.

It had been so real. So detailed. She could still feel the hard wood of the cupboard door as her cheekbone had pressed against it.

Had it been a nightmare? Or a memory?

A memory … in which she had seen her mother’s face. No, that couldn’t be right. She had never had such a memory. The first time she had seen that face was in the portrait over the fireplace in this very house.

But if it were a dream, would Mama not be wearing the only dress Lizzie had ever seen her in—the dressing gown over the frothy white nightclothes?

As clearly as she recalled the cupboard door, Lizzie’s mind recalled the navy silk traveling suit her mother had worn, complete with the bustle draped in a fashion that had been obsolete for a decade. A fashion that did not permit her to sit comfortably on the narrow bench beneath the viewing port.

Not a dream. A memory.

But what had happened afterward? Why had Father twisted up her wrists like that and deliberately hurt her? What boy had they been talking about—His Royal Highness? Surely they could not have meant Prince George, the Prince of Wales’s son?

Her father—assassinating father and son because they stood in line to the throne? But it had not happened. Prince George was alive and well, and in fact was planning to join the Prince of Wales in Scotland for the hunting party, if the
Evening Standard
had its facts in order.

Dream or memory? Whatever it had been, it had murdered sleep for Lizzie, well and truly. It must be long past midnight. Perhaps a tube had arrived and with the staff gone to bed, there was no one to hear. She buttoned a summer dress over her batiste nightgown, shook a moonglobe into luminosity, and padded down the marble staircase barefoot.

A tube waited in the slot in the library.

Dearest Lizzie,

You are the toploftiest of gumpuses (gumpi?) and of course I forgive you.

I shall be on the 7:15 train. The Lady has not yet returned from the revels at the Society (!) so she will not hear me leave. I have confided in Lewis, however. Someone must know where we are, and by the time the Lady extracts the story from him, we will have solved whatever it is that has your wig in a welter.

Love, Maggie

*

“Bundle your hair into this cap,” Evan said, handing her a small garment halfway between a mobcap and what one might wear sea-bathing. “It will protect your head somewhat from the metal interior, and your hair will act as a cushion. Do you see now why I asked you to leave it down?”

Obligingly, Lizzie tucked her hair away and arranged the cap comfortably. He handed her a teacup filled with a milky liquid. “What is this?”

“Something to help you sleep, but watered down quite a lot so that you wake in only an hour or two instead of tomorrow morning. It may have some other physical effects, but they wear off quickly.”

She drank it down—it tasted bitter and slimy—and then Evan guided her onto the table, where he fitted the dream device over her head. “Is Father going to come watch the experiment?”

“I do not know. He mentioned something about visiting the tower at breakfast, but perhaps he wanted to check the telescope. He had better do that either before the experiment begins or after it is concluded. I do not want you to be disturbed.”

“I hope it is after—and that he will not notice the telescope has been moved.”

“He has not been up there in some time. I doubt that he will remember how he left it, and our bad behavior will go unremarked. Now, are you comfortable?”

“As much as one can be with a diving helmet on one’s head.” The last words came out a little slurred. The aforesaid head seemed to be floating off her shoulders.

“Good. Now, I shall lower this visor and I will not be able to hear you. Nor shall you be able to hear me. We will communicate with hand signals and a slate.”

She nodded, and the visor slid down. Her breathing sounded loud in the confined space, and before long, the metal in front of her nose would show the condensation from it. At a gesture from Evan, she lay back and swung her feet up. He slid a bolster—covered in chenille, no doubt filched from one of the many bedrooms in the castle—under her neck and shoulders to support them.

And then she slid into unconsciousness the way an airship crashed—a long, slow glide and a soft landing.

Mama’s voice was only a whisper, but Lizzie in her cupboard could hear it clearly. “Murderer.” Beside her, Maggie stirred and rolled over, but Lizzie could not move.

“So dramatic, Elaine. Nothing has happened yet.”

“What do you plan to do with us?”

“That is well in hand.”

“Charles, think of the girls. They are only five, for God’s sake. They are innocent.”

“I do think of the girls, but when one looks at the longer view, I have all I need in Claude. Girls cannot run businesses, nor can they inherit, especially once I secure a peerage. It is a pity you did not give me a son, like Louise.”

“I know what happened to her, Charles. I know, and if you do not leave now, I will tell what I know. It is all written down, and a word from me will see that the papers get it.”

“And who will hear that word?”

“I shall scream.”

“I have no doubt you will.” He advanced upon her. “But for the sake of the girls, I suggest you do not. Will you terrify them so?”

“You may do as you like with me, but leave them alone.” Mama’s courage was beginning to crack.

“I am afraid not. You see, I know that Elizabeth is awake in that cupboard, and that little pitcher has particularly big ears. No, I am afraid this must be a family affair.”

“What do you—what is that? Charles, what is in that syringe?”

And then Papa pounced upon Mama again, and she tried to scream, but then her body went limp, and something dropped to the floor that Lizzie could not see.

Papa advanced upon the cupboard, and Lizzie pressed both hands to her mouth. Mama lay upon the floor. What was wrong with her? Why was she sleeping there and not in her bed across the cabin? Mewling noises emanated from between her fingers, and Lizzie tried to choke them back. Some deep instinct told her she must be quiet, he must not see her—

Too late.

His tawny eye pressed to the crack in the cupboard door. Only a crack, but she could see the malevolence and the triumph there.

“Do not move or speak,” he whispered, “or your mother will die.” And then he was gone.

Frozen in terror, Lizzie huddled under the quilt. When the smell of smoke crept into the cabin, she sniffed the air. Oh, no. Even she and Maggie knew that meant something dreadful. Fire on an airship meant it would crash. They must not crash!

She must disobey Papa and wake Mama, hurry hurry.

She slid the cupboard door open with both hands and leaped out, shaking Maggie with all the terror that had kept her motionless a few minutes ago. “Maggie! Wake up! There is a fire!”

Maggie rolled to a sitting position. “What? Where?” She coughed and clapped her hands over her nose. “Fire!”

Lizzie dropped to her knees next to Mama and shook her shoulder, the silk slippery under her fingers. “Mama! Wake up! Mama!” But she did not. Mama’s face was waxy pale, and her mouth hung open, filled with spittle. “Mama!”

Lizzie could hear the flames chuckling madly now, and without warning, the floor dropped away underneath her. She screamed and lunged for Maggie. “Get the Captain. He must help Mama!”

They tumbled into the corridor, where men were dashing up and down, handkerchiefs over their faces. “Run!”