Cold Stone and Ivy (26 page)

He rummaged through his pockets, pulled out a coin, pressed it into her palm.

“You can finds yer way home, right luv? ’Cause I got customers an’ all . . .”

And with that, she was gone, leaving Christien alone with the whispers of Hanbury Street.

Of Riding Boots, Crown Princes,
and Scandals on All Fronts

ANNIE’S APPAREL WAS
apparently one of the “very fine” shoe shops in Lancaster. It was low and dark with an old Tudor ambience but, Ivy had to admit, very good leather. She could hear the hiss of the boiler as it puffed steam out into the air, keeping the apparel soft and supple. For some reason, however, the smell reminded her of wet horse, and that made her think of Sebastien.

“Really, Ivy darling? Riding boots?” Fanny turned to her with eyes fairly gleaming with delight. “Whatever will Christien Jeremie say?”

“Ooh, Christien Jeremie . . .” echoed Franny. “What will he say?”

“Christien . . . is in London . . .” She twirled, liking the way her skirts draped along the leather of the boot. It was a well-cut boot of ox-blood brown, laced up mid-calf and continuing up to her knee. The heel was copper, the toe pointed, and somehow, they made her feel strong, confident, and perhaps just a little taller.

“Hah!” she said under her breath. “Take
that,
Sebastien . . .”

“They do look dashing with your waistcoat and bowler, darling,” said Fanny. “And a pocket watch to boot! Why, if it weren’t for the skirts, you’d look like a regular boy!”

“Like a regular boy!”

“And, of course, with your new trinket a-spinning around your neck!”

“A-spinning away!”

“Did Christien Jeremie give that to you, dearest?”

“Did he?”

She paused to stroke the locket with her fingers. It purred like a cat.

“Yes,” she said fondly. “It’s been in his family for years.”

“Is it a clock?” asked Fanny.

“A timepiece?” asked Franny. “A radiometer? A spinthariscope?”

“I have no idea . . .” It was spinning happily on its own. She had not needed to wind it at all.

“And what about Sebastien Laurent then, dearest?” asked Fanny. “Will he approve of your riding boots? After all, he
does
love his horses . . .”

“He loves his horses . . .”

“Well,
actually . . .”

Fanny gasped.

“Out with it, darling!”

“Out! Out!”

Ivy looked up at them. “Sebastien did offer me the use of one of his horses . . .”

“One of his horses? Not the French Warmbloods?”

“The Warmbloods?”

“Yes. A fine bay mare named something something
de la
something. I call her Rue.”

“Rue! That’s lovely, dearest! It’s simply wonderful when a gentleman offers you the use of a fine French Warmblood! Have you ridden her? Have you been riding with him? With Sebastien Laurent? Have you fallen off?”

“Have you fallen?”

“Not yet.” She sat and began to unlace the boots. “But he bought me breeches to wear when I ride . . .”

There was silence.

“They’re quite fine cloth with leather inseams. He bought them here in Lancaster. I’m certain they’ll fit rather well.”

Still nothing.

Ivy looked up. She had never seen such an expression on the faces of the sisters Helmsly-Wimpoll. In fact, with their eyes wide and their mouths hanging open, they looked extraordinarily equine and bovine. All they needed was some hay.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Sebastien Laurent bought you breeches?” said Fanny.

“Breeches?” echoed Franny.

“Yes. Why?” she began slowly, pulling first one, then the other, boot from her leg. “Is that strange?”

“Of course, it’s strange, dearest. It’s very, very strange. Just like him.” Fanny cocked her head as if thinking. “It’s utterly strange, utterly odd . . .”

“Utterly romantic,” sighed Franny.

Suddenly Fanny grabbed Ivy’s shoulders, hauled her to her feet, and drew her close.

“It’s completely and utterly romantic, dearest Ivy! Do you love him? Does he love you? Is he mad with love for you?”

“Mad with love,” sighed Franny.

“No!” Ivy protested. “Not at all!”

“But of course he is! Why would a man buy another man’s fiancée riding clothes? It’s unheard of! Christien Jeremie does not ride, does he dearest?”

“Does he ride?”

Ivy blinked, for in fact, she had never seen Christien astride a horse.

Fanny pushed her away. “You’re simply playing with us, you tease, you! Imagine that, both de Lacey boys smitten with the same new girl! How romantic!”

“Utterly romantic,” sighed Franny.

There was a clerk standing nearby, a small, round woman with a large red plume in her hair. There was a strange expression on her face now, and Ivy cursed the turn of events. Scandal fed on lesser things, she knew.

“Well,
I
am not romantic, and it’s not at all what you think. Penny Dreadful wears breeches.” She fished the boots from the floor, turned them over in her hands. “I can wear these with skirts, you know . . .”

“Oh yes,” said Fanny. “They will look simply smashing with skirts.”

“So smashing.”

“And the land around the Hall is quite hilly, so fine boots are in order . . .”

“Oh, yes, darling. Boots are capital for rough country.”

“Capital. Capital.”

She could feel the expectant gazes of the sisters, the scandalous stare of the shop clerk.

“But I would hate to give anyone the wrong idea, so I think I must decline.” She handed the boots back to the clerk, whose expression fell like a stone. “Thank you, though. They are very fine. I’m sure I could reach quite high in them.”

She turned to the sisters.

“Is there a place we can go for dinner? I have some delicate questions I need to ask.”

“Ah, dinner and delicate questions! What a marvellously delicious duo!”

Fanny took Ivy by one arm whilst Franny took the other and together they bustled out the door of Annie’s Apparel, leaving the very fine boots behind with the scandal.

THE AIRSHIP GLIDED
over the landscape of the northern counties like a ghost, its propellers designed into silence by the Royal Academy Corps of Airships Engineers. It was not the
Royal Carolina.
No, she was a simple Royal Airship Frigate with the name
HMAS Carysfort.
She was a thirty-two-gun Comus-class Corsair cruiser, one of the four that covered the
Carolina,
and her canvas was black and gold. Against the darkening sky, she looked like an orca.

They leaned over the railing of the ship’s forecastle, breathing in deeply the evening sky. It was cold but not raining, perfect for enjoying a gentlemanly smoke and a drink. But neither was a smoker, so they more than made up for it in drink and the conversation had wandered from the state of the German military to career paths, from the ethical dilemma of fox hunting to family dynamics. Of all the topics, that of family was the most unsettling.

“Well, yes, I suppose I will write May but honestly, I quite enjoy the company of Helene. Have you met Helene, Laury?”

“No, I’m afraid I have not.”

“She is a fine girl, altogether fine.” The Duke sighed, reached a long white hand far out over the railing as if trying to catch a cloud. “And I’m quite certain I could do worse. But after watching my parents bobble back and forth all these years, I would be quite satisfied never to marry at all.”

“Women are a riddle that I am in no great hurry to solve.” Sebastien raised a glass to his lips. “By the way, you still have one hovering over you like a black cloud.”

“She’s dead, the woman I gave this to,” said the Duke, twisting the brass ring on his finger. “I met her at a brothel in Whitechapel. I treated her kindly and paid her well, but I didn’t kill her, Laury, I swear. I do hope she doesn’t hold me responsible.”

“If she did, I’d see her clearly and then I’d be forced to push you over the side of the airship. I’d get the gallows for sure.”

“Grandmummie’s justice all around . . .”

They were quiet for a while longer, content with the cold air and the warm Scotch.

“How much do you know about the Ghost Club, Laury?”

“I try to keep myself dissociated.”

“This is a messy complicated business that Remy has got himself into, what with Williams and the boys and the girls and then there’s all the chaos at Bedlam. Damn parliament, I say. Damn all politics, wot?” The Duke looked at him from the corner of his eye. “Are you certain you want to wade into it? You won’t come out clean, you know.
If
you come out at all.”

Sebastien sighed, studied the lights far below.

“The Club was my father’s business, and I’ve tried to steer as clear as I possibly could. I had hoped Christien would do as well. But in all honesty, it’s my fault, so it should be I who deals with them, not Christien.”

“Remy’s a clever fellow. He’ll do what needs be done.” The Duke sighed. “What do you think of his little woman?”

“I don’t know a bloody thing about women, so I’m afraid I can’t comment.” He lifted the Scotch to his lips. “If she were a horse, a dog, or a spirit, it would be a different story.”

“Have you never been to a brothel, Laury?”

“No, Eddy. Can’t say as I have.”

“Well then, I’m quite certain you will need to after Sandringham.” The Duke grinned a lazy grin. “I must admit I find them very exciting places. They are like theatre—the singing and the drama, the laughter, the music. The sheer crush of humanity—men and women together searching desperately for the promise, the illusion, of love. Yes, I must admit I like them very much indeed.”

He turned his heavy-lidded eyes toward Sebastien, blinked slowly. “Is that so terribly scandalous, Laury?”

“Well, for a man of your station, I would think it scandalous, yes.”

“My entire life is a scandal, Laury. I fear there is nothing I can do that would be acceptable either to my family or to the British people.”

“Responsibility is a bugger, Eddy.”

The Duke sighed, leaned back over the railing. Lights were visible far below, from a city or large town. They were over Keilber Forest now, had spied glimpses of Hadrian’s Wall, so likely it was the city of Carlisle. They were too far west for it to be Newcastle, and the smell of coal and sulfur from factories filled the air.

“You must meet my Erica, Laury. You will like her, no matter what Grandmummie says.”

“Is she another one of your bawdyhouse women, Eddy?”

“No, no! She is the Club’s Analytical Engine.
Engine for Rational Input, Computation, and Analysis.
ERICA. I could watch the mathematicians work for hours, punching in the data, hearing her shuttles hum and fly. I believe I could truly be happy if I could work there for the rest of my life.”

“And who would be king?”

“Why George, naturally. He would make a splendid king. The people would love him and leave me well enough alone. I would enjoy myself at the Club during the day and in brothels at night. What a blissful thought.”

“Life is wondrous strange,” said Sebastien.

The Duke raised his glass. “To Life.”

He did the same. “To Life.”

And they drank down the last of the fine Macallen Scotch, dropped the glasses over the side, and took their conversation inside the cabin for the rest of the night.

The Cumbrian Steam Quarterly

September 24, 1888

Mr. Yancy Greengrass of 21 Grovenshire Road was driving home from a drink with his mates when something shattered on the top of his four-wheeled steamcar. According to witnesses, Mr. Greengrass shrieked and flung his arms in the air, leading the steamcar to swerve, teeter, and ultimately tip over into the gutter of Penninewalk Way.

He was not injured but his nerves sustained a fright, and the steamcar itself sustained considerable damage. There is a call to look into the compatibility of four-wheeled steamcars and our northern roads. Of the object which caused the unfortunate Mr. Greengrass to swerve, there is no evidence, although police are suspecting debris from a German airship that was reported seen doing reconnaissance over the district.

The War Office has declined to comment, and police are continuing to investigate.

THE LANCASTER MEWS
was not quite pub, not quite tea room, and they picked for themselves a table with a view of the castle lights through the window. Ivy dined on chicken pie with leeks, Fanny on pork tart and beans, and Franny had tucked into something called “lasagna.” It was apparently Italian and rather like a tomato casserole. Ivy watched with fascination as the woman put away the entire dish and still had room for gooseberry crumble.