Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea (15 page)

The central table was set with more than enough dainties to look inviting; none of them, though, was
quite
as bright, as sumptuous or as rich in cream and jam as Mrs. Drumm’s offerings had been.

“Perfect,” said Mrs. Corvey.

She sat down and made sure her household account book was to hand, as well as pen and ink.

“Shall we unmask at some point? Will there be a signal?” asked Dora brightly.

“Yes. We might shock poor Mrs. Drumm a bit, but I think she can bear up,” said Mrs. Corvey. “We must be in a little more haste than usual—I want her help with our projects Friday night.”

A knock at the door in a few minutes proved to be Jenny, the parlor maid, announcing the expected visitor; Mrs. Corvey bade her bring the lady up, and shortly Mrs. Drumm was ushered into their sitting room.

She still wore a cook’s plain black gown, though lace collar and cuffs ornamented it now. A surprisingly fashionable coal scuttle bonnet framed her face; a Spanish shawl and a flame-blue silk scarf spilled color round her shoulders. When she handed her bonnet off to Jane’s polite inquiry, a lace and linen day cap could be seen sitting like a phoenix on slightly faded embers atop her red hair.

“Well, mum, here I am,” she announced to Mrs. Corvey’s blind gaze.

Mrs. Corvey pointed vaguely round the room, introducing each of the Ladies, who rose each with a pleasant nod of greeting as their names were called. Mrs. Drumm smiled back, though she seemed to be restraining a growing tendency to laugh. When all were named, she looked round at the various smiles directed in her direction, gazing a long moment at Herbertina. Her mouth twitched.

“Now I do see why you needed me to meet all your young ladies. A very great variety of ’em you do have, too. Which it has been my privilege to cook for before this, so it’s not a shock,” she said. “Though I warn you fair, I ain’t cheap—it was a very
good
house, and saw much custom from gentlemen.”

“So is mine. Our situation is very much as you suspect, Mrs. Drumm,” said Mrs. Corvey graciously. “And then again, very different in important ways, too.”

“I will just say so!” Mrs. Drumm pointed at Herbertina. “You, my lad, are a lass. Well, I say
lass,
but I doubt you’re a maid-child of any sort.”

“No, ma’am,” replied Herbertina politely.

“Well, Mrs. Drumm, if Herbert doesn’t put you off, it’s my hope you’ll accept my offer of employment in the very near future,” said Mrs. Corvey. “But there are a few items that mark us out from the regular trade, as it were, and Herbert’s the least of ’em.”

As Mrs. Drumm watched with growing amazement, Mrs. Corvey took up the tea pot and poured a flawless cup of tea. She picked it up and offered it, perfectly accurately, across the table.

“Your eyes are as good as mine,” said Mrs. Drumm, grinning. She reached for the cup.

“Actually, I have no eyes,” Mrs. Corvey said, and removed her dark glasses. It was as well she retained the cup, too, as Mrs. Drumm’s hand fell nerveless to the tabletop at the sight of her gleaming brass lenses.

Mrs. Drumm didn’t faint, though her face went white as her collar and Mrs. Otley anxiously went running for the smelling salts. However, a few deep breaths and the restorative cup of tea seemed to settle her down; and though she found it obviously difficult to meet Mrs. Corvey’s ‘eyes,’ she studied them resolutely while Mrs. Corvey gave her an abbreviated version of their origin and Maude pressed sweets upon her.

“So—they’re like telescopes, then?” Mrs. Drumm took a taste of a custard tart.

“Just so.”

“And they was given you by these clever Gentlemen who work for the Crown?” Mrs. Drumm gave the custard tart a look of disfavor and set it aside. “Are you—political, then?”

“More or less,” said Mrs. Corvey, and proceeded to relate a brief description of the Gentlemen’s Speculative Society as well. Various of the Ladies inserted occasional explanatory and encouraging comments as she went on.

She explained how the Society underwrote the cost of Nell Gwynne’s, and that the various Ladies—well-bred, intelligent and educated—collected information while plying their even older trade. She touched briefly on the existence of the further technological marvels that enabled her to keep both a respectable household and a successful house of prostitution. She dwelt at considerable length on the housing benefits, the generous salary, and the appreciative audience awaiting an artiste of Mrs. Drumm’s expertise. She delicately hinted at the security assurances necessary for the staff of Nell Gwynne’s, and just how many might apply to Mrs. Drumm herself.

“Though they ain’t restrictive, for the domestic staff. Your predecessor departed with no trouble at all, save for leaving without notice,” said Mrs. Corvey. She sighed bitterly.

“We really do need a cook. And we really are on holiday,” said Dora earnestly.

“What are you doing with Mr. Pickett, then?” Mrs. Drumm looked shrewdly at Lady Beatrice. “I can’t think a clever lady like you actually wants him!”

Lady Beatrice had remained silent throughout Mrs. Corvey’s explanatory lecture, knitting a tiny scarlet stocking cap. She set her needles in her lap and looked seriously at Mrs. Drumm.

“To be succinct—Mr. Pickett has designed and built a steam-operated cannon. He has also designed and built a gun platform that operates underwater, and he intends to re-open war with the French in two days’ time. Mr. Pickett is a boor, a petty tyrant and probably a lunatic, Mrs. Drumm,” she said. “We did not seek him here, but when we discovered what he is about—and he is about some very grave mischief, as you can see—it was our duty to bring him to the attention of our masters. They cannot deal with him immediately, so we have been instructed to distract and delay him.” Lady Beatrice resumed her knitting. “In two nights’ time, we shall stop him. We would benefit by your assistance.”

“I could poison him,” said Mrs. Drumm rather eagerly.

“An understandable sentiment, I’m sure. But we think Felan is managing the crew of the
Sceptre
for Mr. Pickett, and would continue in his absence,” said Lady Beatrice.

Mrs. Drumm scowled. “Felan! That one is poison himself!”

“We’re prepared to handle him, never fear,” Mrs. Corvey assured her. “But you see how taking Mr. Pickett out wouldn’t do the job of itself. I hate to press you, Mrs. Drumm, but we are in a hurry now: how do you answer?”

Mrs. Drumm looked round their faces once more time, and then steeled herself and faced Mrs. Corvey directly.

“I say yes, mum,” she said. “To your kind offer of employment, to be sure; and I hope you won’t take it as a reflection on my character if I don’t give notice to Mr. Pickett. But I’ll be ready to take up duties on your say-so. As for helping you stop that mad bugger from starting a war—why, bless you all, I’d help you stop him from finding his next breath if that was what you wanted, he’s been that bothersome! Just tell me what you need.”

She and Mrs. Corvey shook hands firmly across the table, and the Devere sisters gave a little cheer.

“All right, then,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Here’s my plan…”

The next day was oddly relaxed. Only one vase of modest flowers arrived for Lady Beatrice; nor was it delivered by Felan, whom they presumed was deep in preparations for the next night’s skirmish. Several tool deliveries were made to Herbertina, all tidily done up in white paper and burlap bags, and stored upstairs without undue comment. A quantity of wool grease, amounting to a gallon or so, arrived with the tools.

Last minute sewing was undertaken, attaching necessary
straps to a few items and making sure all the new corset stays were in place for an evening of potential action. In a fit of whimsey, Maude embroidered a staring eye—one of the occasional sigils of the Gentlemen’s Speculative Society—over the bullet hole in Herbertina’s corset.

A vital question might have been—when did Mr. Pickett mean to start his marauding? The invitation to a sunset picnic on the
Sceptre
nicely gave them a time line with which to work. Checking with Mr. Felmouth verified that
Le Cygne Impériale
had been sighted paralleling the Dover coast within presumed range of the
Sceptre
, and certainly within range of the steam-powered gun platform. He also informed Mrs. Corvey that a party of Gentlemen were hoping to arrive in Torquay within a day or two; but he could make no guarantee of their timing.

A note from Mrs. Drumm, however, gave the cheering news that she had attached herself to the party by volunteering to prepare a flaming sauce for the sweet course onboard ship.

“Very enterprising of her,” said Mrs. Corvey approvingly on receiving this intelligence.

“Her enthusiasm might be considered slightly daunting,” said Miss Rendlesham, amused.

“You haven’t come to know Pickett. Wouldn’t be surprised if she planned on burning him to the waterline,” returned Mrs. Corvey.

There was consternation and scandal over the finding of Mr. Ponsonby’s body the prior day; the lodging house was buzzing over it. However, it was known he had lost his place with Mr. Pickett, and for a jest that—despite Mr. Pickett’s eccentric and even difficult reputation locally—was regarded as quite inappropriate. His death was attributed to low living and ill-luck, and a possibly chance encounter with some transient in the fishermen’s pubs.

Nonetheless, it was suggested that ladies avoid the beach for the next day or two, which meant foot traffic should be slight.

All in all, things went so quietly and so well that Mrs. Corvey declared preparations complete by tea time. A sunset walk was enjoyed by all, followed by an evening of cards and music. There was a marked excitement among the Ladies, but no one noticing it would have thought it any more than slightly giddy holidaymakers enjoying their summer by the sea.

The Ladies slept in next morning, except for Domina and Herbertina—and even there, Herbertina obligingly rose, took the terrier for a run and then came back and went back to sleep on the sofa in their parlor.

Mrs. Corvey noted it because she was up and already busy; but then, she slept little since her blindness, even with the diverting effects provided by her lenses. Some primal place in her brain stayed in the twilight, she felt, and she no longer needed sleep as much as the younger ones…besides, no matter how late she stayed up in the way of business, the hour just post-dawn was still the quietest and most peaceful time she ever had. There was a unique privacy to it, and a peculiar clarity of thought.

She had made out all their schedules for the day on separate sheets of paper by the time the Ladies wandered in, with loose hair and bare feet, like a flock of sleepy birds. It was understood to be a slow day, in anticipation of a vigorous evening.

However, there was certain amount of preparation needed before sunset; some of it was positively mundane, in that Lady Beatrice had to be dressed to be resplendent and yet be well-accoutered for action. They had brought no maids, of course, so everyone joined forces to lay out what might be needed, first for the yacht-bound parties and then for the rest of them.

“It’s like getting ready for a ball!” said Dora happily, taking a damp cloth to Lady Beatrice’s scarlet silk slippers. She wiped them down and set them neatly under the equally scarlet skirts of the matching gown, hanging now in the parlor to enliven its folds in the fresh air. “Except for the knives and such.”

“I always carry a knife to balls,” said Miss Rendlesham. She slipped one, as if by example, into the busk pocket of her corset.

“Well, of course. So do I,” Dora agreed. She was now sorting tools into canvas wrappings. “But when we first came out—oh, those early parties, remember, sisters? We’d pile all our ribbons and jewels and sashes and combs together, and try everything on everyone until we each looked just right! It was so much fun. And this is, too. Do you want a mallet and chisel, or an awl, Jane?”

“Oh, let me have the chisel and mallet. I feel heroic.” And Jane flexed her slender arms like a boxer, making all the others laugh.

By mid-afternoon, only Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Corvey were still in their wrappers, in anticipation of dressing for the evening. Everyone else was dressed in the simplest clothes they had brought—mostly walking skirts and good boots; no one but Herbertina had brought boys’ garments or other costuming. Each of the Ladies also had a canvas sack, newly equipped with sturdy straps, wherein to transport various penetrative tools—the chisels, drills and awls Herbertina had procured—as well as a jar of wool wax. Each carried a coil of rope; a flask; a waterproof tin of lucifers. A towel.

Shortly before sunset, Mrs. Corvey looked them over and pronounced everyone as ready as they could be. She and Lady Beatrice looked iconic in the westering light: Lady Beatrice as red and white and grey-eyed as a classical goddess, and Mrs. Corvey herself as a rather more mundane shadow. The rest of the Ladies were considerably less noticeable.

“We look like romantic gypsy wenches,” commented Mrs. Otley, surveying them all.

“Or tinkers’ girls,” said Jane, and essayed a few jig steps.

“Slip out one at a time, now, and use the stable exit,” instructed Mrs. Corvey. “You do like like something from Mr. Gay’s opera—and we don’t want any attention. Maude, do you have your clicker?”

“I do, Mrs. C.” Maude showed a cloth bag about her neck, wherein lay a clicker. Its mate lay in Mrs. Corvey’s bosom.

“Herbertina?”

“Arrangements all made and ready, ma’am.” Herbertina tugged her cap subserviently.

Mrs. Corvey nodded sharply, satisfied. “Luck to you, my dears. Mind yourselves, now.”

One by one, each of them wished good fortune to the others as well, and went silently down the outside stairs. They scattered in all directions, so as not to make their way in an obvious group, and set out one by one for the beach.

Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Corvey waited patiently by lamplight. Domina, left behind, whined at the closed door and settled in her basket to wait.

No sooner had Herbertina, the last to leave, vanished down the back stairs than footsteps were heard ascending from the front. Jenny the parlor-maid knocked at the door to announce the expected carriage had arrived.

It was a closed carriage tonight, rather than the open-topped barouche, and Mr. Pickett had sent it along without his own attendance. The coachman assured them, though, that he was waiting for them at the
Sceptre
’s mooring, and bowed them in.

The interior was sumptuous, and a corsage of roses lay on the back seat. Lamps on gimbals glowed on the walls, lighting the coach like a tiny ship’s cabin. Mounted over the forward seat, however, Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Corvey were startled to observe a long-barreled musket and accoutrements. Lady Beatrice examined it before she sat down.