Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea (2 page)

Lady Beatrice looked up and down the beach. “We are in a comparatively secluded spot, Mrs. Corvey. Perhaps you’d enjoy trying out the new telescopic function at last?”

“I could do, couldn’t I?” Mrs. Corvey brightened. Glancing once over her shoulder, she slipped off her goggles. She then performed a certain muscular contraction (resembling a subdued squint), activating a switch in the brass and crystal apparatus that served her as eyes. With a smooth whirr, the lenses protruded in telescoping sections until they stood a full five inches out from her face. “Oooh! Oh, yes, that’s lovely. How close Berry Head looks! And look at all the ships…”

She fell silent, absorbed in watching all the goings-on in the harbor. Fishing boats were coming in, circled by wheeling clouds of crying seabirds. Closer in, the prosperous had moored their yachts, and on each deck was a nearly identical tableau: an industrialist or peer dressed in nautical whites was taking tea in the open air. Each was accompanied by either an overdressed wife and children, a distinctly underdressed young mistress, or a party of fellow yachtsmen. In the last case tea was generally augmented by a great number of bottles.

One late sailor alone was plying the afternoon waters, in a singularly sleek and rakish craft so far out on the horizon it looked half transparent. Mrs. Corvey found herself wondering why he wasn’t taking his tea with the others. She watched him a while, and observed that there was something uncertain in the manner in which he was tacking back and forth.

Intrigued, she extended her optics and adjusted the lenses to their highest magnification. The distant yacht leapt at once into close focus, beautifully sharp and clear. It was indeed a trim craft, designed it seemed for racing rather than ostentation. Mrs. Corvey saw three men on deck. Two wore some sort of uniform or livery; the third, clearly the yacht’s owner, wore a yachtsman’s cap and a startling crimson coat. He stood in the bows, scanning the sea with a spyglass. He seemed to be searching for something.

Mrs. Corvey was speculating idly on whether the fellow might be a latter-day smuggler when she was startled to see something rise from the sea just off the yacht’s bow. It resembled a ship’s mast, without crosstrees. The yachtsman turned and shouted silently at his helmsman, who took the yacht close to the object. The yachtsman turned and looked toward the shore with what Mrs. Corvey would have sworn was a furtive expression; then turned and hurriedly made his way over the side, down a rope ladder. Mrs. Corvey looked on in astonishment as the yachtsman appeared to walk across the surface of the sea to the mast. He was obscured for a moment by the yacht’s bowsprit. When the craft backed again he was nowhere to be seen.

The yacht put about and made off hurriedly, vanishing around Berry Head. The mast appeared to sink straight down into the sea and disappear.

Mrs. Corvey did not surprise easily, as might be imagined, but even so she was a moment in composing herself.

That’s got to be something the Gentlemen are working on,
she thought.
Must be. Nothing I need to concern myself with on my holidays, to be sure.

Herbertina stretched her arms wide and yawned. “Well, I’m famished! Do you suppose our tea’s ready yet?”

“Oh, I do hope so,” said Miss Rendlesham, a little crossly. “Ever since you brought up the subject of muffins, I’ve been unable to pay attention to my book.”

“I could just do with a cup of tea,” said Mrs. Corvey thoughtfully, retracting her optics and donning her goggles.

Yet a mere cream tea, even a substantial one, was unable to make Mrs. Corvey quite forget what she had seen out in the bay. The specter of the mast rising from the sea kept protruding into her thoughts, all through the evening’s game of whist and the impromptu song medley the Devere sisters led on the lodging-house’s pianoforte. Even the dismal prospect of having to hire a new cook was relegated to the back of Mrs. Corvey’s mind by the mystery.

It wasn’t so much that anything the Gentlemen’s Speculative Society might get up to was capable of surprising her. She knew perfectly well they were always developing technologies both new and arcane, what with their flying machines, steam-powered governess carts and all. It was only that their principal Artificer, Mr. Felmouth, was a single man and rather lonely for conversation, and was in the habit of dropping by Mrs. Corvey’s office for a chat over a cup of tea now and then.

On several occasions he had, more or less inadvertently, told her a great deal about projects presently in development. Mrs. Corvey had been obliged to gently remind him about her level of security clearance, and he had apologized with a certain chagrin, but they both understood that any classified information was perfectly safe within the environs of Nell Gwynne’s. Mrs. Corvey was fairly sure that if the Gentlemen were testing some sort of underwater craft, she would have heard something about it.

It was shortly after midnight when Mrs. Corvey sat bolt upright in her nightdress, murmuring an oath she had learned at her mother’s knee in the workhouse, and climbed from bed. Wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, she opened her trunk and stood before it a moment, indecisive.

She did possess a device appearing to be a sewing-box, which could be reassembled in such a manner as to permit her to transmit an immediate message to the Gentlemen’s London headquarters. Did the matter of what she had witnessed require such urgency, however, when it was more than likely to turn out to be some covert field test the Gentlemen themselves were conducting?

Mrs. Corvey drew out her code book instead, and settled down with it at her room’s writing desk. The desk was well supplied with paper, ink, pens, sealing-wax, envelopes and postage stamps, as well as a candle in a candlestick. This last item was unnecessary, of course; Mrs. Corvey merely adjusted her optics for night vision as she took pen in hand.

After a half-hour’s musing over the codebook, she had composed the following innocent-sounding missive:

Translated, this meant:

Having satisfied her conscience, Mrs. Corvey enclosed the missive in an envelope, sealed it, addressed it to a particular mail drop location, and affixed a postage stamp. She set it on the mantelpiece, to be sure of remembering to have it posted next morning, and retired to her bed, where she turned off her eyes and slept at last.

Mrs. Corvey was, as a consequence, a little dull and distracted next morning, but not to such an extent she forgot to carry her letter down to the dining room. It was sitting propped against the teapot when Mrs. Otley came down to breakfast. She was draped with coils of rope, collecting-baskets and a tool belt containing rock hammers in varying sizes.

“I’m off to Daddyhole, if anyone else would like to go fossil-hunting,” she said hopefully.

There was a resounding silence at the table before Jane, Dora and Maude spoke together.

“We’d simply love to, only we—”

“I’ve already put my bathing-costume on under my—”

“I, er, turned my ankle on the path and I don’t think—”

“I was just off to the shops for some cigars,” said Herbertina. Miss Rendlesham, who had her novel propped open before her plate of kippers and potatoes, simply pretended she hadn’t heard.

Seeing Mrs. Otley’s downcast expression, Lady Beatrice set aside her napkin. “I believe I’ll keep you company, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Just post this for me on the way out, would you, dear?” Mrs. Corvey handed her the letter.

“Oh, jolly good!” cried Mrs. Otley. “There are some really splendid Devonian corals, and it is just possible to find an ammonite now and again…”

“…but on the other hand, I once extracted an entire trilobite specimen from calcareous limestone using nothing more than a letter opener and a beefsteak hammer,” she was saying after half an hour’s steady walking.

“How fascinating,” said Lady Beatrice, pausing to disentangle a twig of holm-oak from her hair.

“That was at Lyme, of course,” said Mrs. Otley, with a sigh.

“Was that before I signed on? When were we at Lyme?” Lady Beatrice asked in surprise, for Mrs. Corvey was rather pronounced in her preference for Torbay.

“Oh,
we
never were. I lived there once,” said Mrs. Otley, and Lady Beatrice nodded discreetly, for it was well understood amongst the ladies that one never inquired directly about a sister whore’s past. They walked on a short way, emerging from the wood onto the cliff top, before Mrs. Otley continued: “My father was a scholar, you see, a collector of natural curiosities. Not, unfortunately, very wise in the ways of the world; after his death I learned the estate was entailed to a third cousin.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. I had quite a good education, and so I went for a governess, as they say. Unfortunately I was rather unwise in the ways of the world myself, you know, and the usual thing happened.”

“I am so sorry to hear it.”

“My employer wanted nothing to do with the baby, of course, but I was able to put her out to nurse in the country. It was rather grim for the first two years, providing for her; but after I was recruited, of course, my situation so far improved that I was able to find her a convent school in France.”

“How nice.”

“Should you like to see her?” Mrs. Otley turned on the path, a little flushed.

“Certainly!”

“Here.” Mrs. Otley handed her the collecting-baskets and opened the collar of her bodice. She withdrew a tiny locket and, holding it forth on its chain, opened it to reveal a portrait of an infant. The child had Mrs. Otley’s eyes, narrowed in laughter, and tip-tilted nose.

“What a pretty baby!”

“She’s quite a young lady now.” Self-consciously, Mrs. Otley tucked the locket back out of sight. “Speaks French and writes in a beautiful hand. We correspond, you know. I write as her aunt.”

“Of course.”

“Well.” Mrs. Otley gathered her collecting gear about her again. “Shall we press on? One never knows what the natural erosion will have uncovered. Do you know of Mr. Darwin, the naturalist?”

“I don’t believe I do, no.”

“Well, he’s never been a customer; Royal Society, you know, but he seldom leaves his house at Down. In any case, last year I sent him a specimen of bryozoa and he was kind enough to—”

Both women halted on the path, staring. They had attained the top of the high plain, giving them a splendid view south and eastward across the mild summer sea.

“What on earth is that?” said Lady Beatrice.

“I can’t imagine,” said Mrs. Otley, shading her eyes with her hand.

They referred to the immense object some distance out, a pale form seeming to hover just under the surface of the water.

“It’s far too big to be a whale,” said Mrs. Otley.

“And rectangular,” said Lady Beatrice.

“Yes, there is that,” said Mrs. Otley.

They watched the floating shape for some few minutes.

“It doesn’t appear to be moving,” Mrs. Otley observed.

“Perhaps it is some sort of sunken barge,” said Lady Beatrice, just as the thing seemed to lurch in the water and then moved away in the direction of Berry Head, picking up speed as it traveled. “Then again, perhaps not.”

The unidentified floating object vanished.

“I think we ought to report to Mrs. Corvey,” said Lady Beatrice.

“I quite agree,” said Mrs. Otley. “The fossils will still be there tomorrow.”

They turned and walked back down the path.

As they passed the bathing beach, Lady Beatrice noted that although the Devere sisters were once again frolicking in the surf, and Miss Rendlesham had found a shady spot in which to read, Mrs. Corvey was nowhere to be seen. Upon returning to the lodging house, she discovered that this was because Mrs. Corvey had remained in the guests’ parlor and was listening, with an expression of patience, to Mrs. Abbott, who had rooms on the second floor.

“…not at all the sort of thing we are accustomed to in these parts,” Mrs. Abbott was saying. “In Bonaparte’s time there were ever so many alarms about French spies slipping ashore, and of course there are the smugglers, but I really do not know what to make of this, other than that the poor man had been indulging in brandy.”

“Have there never been legends of sea monsters before?” Mrs. Corvey inquired.

“Indeed no; one hears tales of them off Scotland and Norway, of course, but then they are such inveterate drinkers in those countries. I suppose it is the beastly cold weather. But one never hears of such things here in
Torquay
!” Mrs. Abbott clicked her knitting needles emphatically.

“How very strange,” said Mrs. Corvey. She turned her head in the direction of the parlor door where Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Otley stood. “Has someone just come in?”

“Yes, Mother,” said Lady Beatrice. “The sunlight has given Erato a headache, and so we turned back. I hope you’ll excuse the question, but has something strange been sighted at sea?”

“That’s what Mrs. Abbott here has been telling me,” said Mrs. Corvey.

“How very interesting,” said Mrs. Otley. “Perhaps you would have the kindness to tell us about it, ma’am?”

“Oh, one of the fishermen has claimed he saw a sea monster,” said Mrs. Abbott. “It is all the talk in the taverns; which I only know, of course, because my footman George stepped in for a pot of porter. On the advice of the doctor,” she added hastily.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Corvey.

“Remarkable,” said Lady Beatrice, with a significant lift of her eyebrow.

“I was
told
the man claimed it was a veritable leviathan. He claimed it came up under his fishing smack and struck the hull such a blow that he was nearly thrown into the sea,” said Mrs. Abbott, dropping a stitch in her haste to convey the story.

“How fortunate he was not drowned,” said Mrs. Otley.

“I should think so,” said Mrs. Corvey. “If you will excuse me, Mrs. Abbott—girls, will you just see me upstairs? I believe it’s time for Dr. Parry’s drops, and you really ought to lie down, Erato dear.”

When they had retreated to their rooms, Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Otley lost no time in relating to Mrs. Corvey what they had seen from the cliff top. Mrs. Corvey listened grimly, nodding.

“I saw something of the kind myself, yesterday,” she said.

“Do you suppose the Gentlemen are testing something?” said Mrs. Otley.

“That was just what I wrote to enquire,” said Mrs. Corvey. “But if it’s them, somebody’s being bloody careless, because the whole town’s talking about ‘em. And if it ain’t the Gentlemen, then they need to know about it post-haste.”

“What ought we to do?” said Lady Beatrice.

“Just what we done,” Mrs. Corvey replied. “But if I don’t hear back by post soon, I’ll be obliged to send to ‘em on the Aetheric Transmitter.”

A squall of rain blew through in the night, and though it had blown out by morning, the sands were unpleasantly chilly and damp. As a consequence, rather than go bathing, the ladies went for a stroll along Victoria Parade to look in the shop windows.

They trooped along together, enjoying the splendid views across the bay, to say nothing of the unaccustomed fresh air and sunlight, until misfortune overtook them. It chanced that Miss Rendlesham had had a bonnet of a whimsical nature trimmed up especially for the seaside. Rather than the customary silk roses or violets, it was adorned with a cockade incorporating several real seashells, a dried seahorse, and a shrimp made from oiled paper and painted plaster, the latter very lifelike. Far too lifelike, as they discovered whilst idling outside a confectioner’s shop window.

“Look out!” cried Lady Beatrice, who had glanced up just in time to see a gull swooping down. The others screamed and ducked as the bird beat its wings wildly, striking and pulling at the faux prawn. Miss Rendlesham cowered, clutching the ribbons by which her bonnet was held on. Herbertina had just taken Mrs. Corvey’s cane and was aiming a blow at the importunate bird when something flashed overhead and impacted the gull. There was an explosion of feathers, and an inordinately huge knife bounced off Miss Rendlesham’ shoulder and landed with a clatter on the paving. The gull squawked once and veered off, flopping into the sea.

There was a renewed chorus of screams (and an oath from Herbertina). Miss Rendlesham stood trembling in a cloud of feathers, afraid to let go of her hat. Mrs. Corvey snatched her cane back from Herbertina and gingerly poked at the knife. “Dear God, is someone chucking cutlasses around here?”

“Ma’am!” cried a male voice, and looking up they beheld a man running toward them along the seafront.

“I believe this is our knight errant,” said Lady Beatrice, observing him closely as he neared them. He was a tall and well-built gentleman in a light summer suit, with a fine head of chestnut curls and prodigious whiskers. As he came close enough to look into Lady Beatrice’s eyes he halted and pulled himself up, in an effect remarkably similar to a stallion rearing. Lady Beatrice sighed inwardly. She often had that effect on men. She assumed it was due to her eyes, which were grey and had a rather penetrating gaze.

“I—I—Ma’am, I must h’apologize for the h’intrusion, but I saw the young lady being h’assailed—and I, ah…” The gentleman’s booming voice, which bespoke the American South despite his music hall accent, trailed away as he stared at Lady Beatrice, his mouth slightly open.

“It was very good of you,” she told him. He remained gaping at her, apparently spellbound, a moment longer before recollecting himself and bending to scoop up the knife. He returned the knife to his inside coat pocket, and belatedly removed his hat.

“Forgive my, ah, I mean, we ’aven’t been h’introduced—Allow me to—the name’s Tredway Pickett, ma’am.” Mr. Pickett seized Lady Beatrice’s hand and bent over it in a fervent kiss.

“How do you do, Mr. Pickett,” murmured Lady Beatrice.

“I do ’ope the young lady wasn’t too scared by me knife? I do think I got the villainous creature,” said Mr. Pickett, straightening up but not relinquishing Lady Beatrice’s hand.

“You did, Mr. Pickett, without question. Were you much frightened, Charlotte?” Lady Beatrice turned to regard Miss Rendlesham.

“Only moderately,” replied Miss Rendlesham, who had taken off her bonnet and was regarding it in some chagrin. “More by that dreadful great knife than by the gull!”