Lady of Spirit, A (14 page)

Maggie took several deep breaths to steady her stomach. “Is it our business to do anything? This is obviously well organized—so well that either
no one
or
everyone
in Penzance knows of it—and of long standing. And it must be run at the highest levels, because I have never seen undersea dirigibles like that before. Who even makes them?”

But Lizzie waved this off as irrelevant. “Of course it’s our business! It’s our future. I don’t know about you, but I’m not keen on having to run an international smuggling operation simply to keep the dunner-men from the door.”

“Not that you couldn’t,” Maggie said loyally.

“That is not the point. The point is, this is no kind of legacy to leave one’s grandchildren. What if someone puts a foot wrong? Who wants a fleet of nasty
navires sous-marins
turning up every time one steps out of line?”

But Maggie was more concerned with the real dangers of the present than the imagined ones of the future. “We must notify the magistrate—that nice Sir John Rockland. He will know what to do.”

“Maggie, listen to yourself. He will arrest Grandfather for disobeying the Crown! Is that what you want?”

“N-no,” Maggie said slowly. “But now that we know of it, we are disobeying the Crown ourselves.”

“
We
are not landing smuggled goods.”

“Neither is Grandfather … exactly. He may be in the same position as we—knowing of it and allowing it. That does not make it less wrong, but at least he is not down there in the
sawan
in his shirtsleeves, unloading cigarillos. Look, this is getting us nowhere. We must send a pigeon to the Lady from
Victory
. She will know what to do.”

As a contrast to an untenable course, the thought of a mile’s run over field and stile at three in the morning seemed almost welcome.

And then Lizzie, whose hearing was acute, laid a hand on Maggie’s sleeve as she prepared to slip back into the shadows and along the cliff face. “What was that?”

“What?” Maggie could hear nothing but the wash of agitated waves and the subdued chug of the engines of
Neptune’s Maid
at idle.

“Can’t you hear singing?”

There were legends along this coast of mermaids who swam into coves and bays to sing the sailors into the sea, where they would attempt to take them for husbands—facing eternal disappointment at the sailors’ inability to survive under the waves. For one wild moment, Maggie wondered if there were mermen, too, with a penchant for young women.

“They could be singing as they unload those
chaloupes
.”

“No, not like that. It sounds like someone is drunk.”

Together, they peered around the face of the rock to the outcropping of the cliff on the other side of the little bay. At the foot of it, wavering and stumbling, came a loose-limbed figure from the direction of Penzance, coat and cravat gone, shirt white and flapping in the moonlight.

Maggie gasped. “It’s Claude! Drunk as a skunk and oh, Lizzie, he’s heading for the
sawan
. He’ll run right into those men—and then what will they do?”

The tide had ebbed enough now to leave a thin strip of wet sand at the foot of the cliffs, the rocks exposed and dangerously wet and slippery with weed. Claude lost his footing more than once, and finally settled for sitting like a child and sliding down the rest of the way, landing with a splash knee-deep in seawater. It was clear his intent was to get into the house unseen through the
sawan
, but equally clear was the fact that he had forgotten the cellar door would be locked. He splashed to the narrow beach and turned to look for the
sawan
’s arched and carved entrance.

At which point he saw the
navire
, its great glass dome rising from the water, the man who must be the captain watching the proceedings from the bridge.

“Halt!” he cried with a tipsy giggle. “Who goes there?”

The train of
chaloupes
issued out of the
sawan
, sitting much higher in the water now that they had been unloaded. “Hey!” cried one of the men in the lead one, which appeared to be the only one with a crew. “Who are you?”

“Might ask you the same question,” slurred Claude, “since I belong here and you do not. I say, what an interesh—interst—that is quite the boat.”

“Get your arse inside and wait for the next load. When are the rest coming?”

“Dashed if I know. Left most of them sleeping in the tavern.”

“Tavern?” The second speaker was the one who had sent the oarsman off to fetch the rest of his companions. “A fine kettle of fish! What are they doing in the tavern when they’re needed here?”

“He’s not with us,” the first man said. “Who are you, boy?”

Don’t tell them, Claude
, Maggie urged silently.
You’re just one of the locals, talking a walk to sober up before going home.

“Claude. Who’re you?”

“None of your business.”

By this time the uniformed man in the navigation gondola had issued from the top of the ship onto a kind of platform. The green light of the bridge illuminated him from below in an eerie way that made Claude reel back. “I say, what a fabulous contraption.”

“Claude?” the captain said, and Maggie stiffened. The jig was up. “Would that be Claude Seacombe, Howel Seacombe’s grandson? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Paul Martin, and this is my crew.”

“Pleasure.” Claude took off one boot and poured water out of it, then did the same for the other. “Jolly cold water hereabouts, what?”

“Since it appears your grandfather has become reluctant to partner with us for the next stage, despite the profit he derives from our association, I believe some encouragement is in order. Claude, would you like a tour of our ship and something hot to drink?”

“Oh no. Claude, run, if you can!” Maggie moaned.

“Bloody civil of you, old chap.” Claude waved cheerfully. “And then I really must go in. Hell to pay if I’m late to breakfast, don’t you know.”

At a gesture from the captain, the
chaloupe
train reversed direction, ran up on the beach, and one of the bathynauts from the Americas assisted Claude inside the lead vessel with every appearance of hospitality and laughter and camaraderie.

“No, no, no,” Lizzie breathed.

It had been a long time since Maggie had felt so helpless, trapped as they were on the far side of the rocks and utterly unable even to shout a warning, much less grab their hapless cousin by the elbows and hustle him to safety. It was abundantly clear that what had been a criminal situation before had now become life-threatening.

She was quite sure they planned to hold him for ransom at least long enough to bring their grandfather back into line. Had Howel Seacombe finally seen the light and realized he was in over his head? But in what? Who were these people, and what did they want from him besides a conduit for colonial goods into England? What was the “next stage”?

The metal maw of
Neptune’s Maid
opened once again to admit the train, and when the
chaloupes
sallied forth once more, Claude was no longer inside the lead one with the bathynauts.

“What are we going to do?” Maggie wailed into Lizzie’s ear. “Even if we tell the Lady—or Grandfather—or the magistrate—we don’t know where that monstrosity is going.”

“France?” Lizzie hazarded. “But where? And even if we knew, no one can see it under the water. It could sit on the bottom of the harbor at Calais and no one would ever know it was there.”

A shout upon the water signaled the return of the local crew, crowded into the rowing boat and coming much faster with the help of more than one pair of oars. The girls were forced to shrink back into the shadows to avoid being seen, but while the unloading was taking place, at least Maggie got a chance to think.

“We must split up,” she said at last, watching the
chaloupes
chug their way back to
Neptune’s Maid
. “One of us must tell Grandfather and get a pigeon to the Lady, and the other must stop them from going until help comes.”

“What?” Lizzie choked on her own breath. “You can’t mean it. We must both run for help. If one goes to Grandfather and the other to
Victory
, it will come much faster.”

“And if we don’t get back in time, we’ll lose Claude somewhere under the sea. No, it must be this way, Liz. And since you’re the heiress if something happens to him, I must stall them and you must go for help.”

“No! Mags, it’s far too dangerous.”

“But we cannot leave poor Claude in their hands! What if Grandfather refuses to do what they want and they kill him?”

“What if they kill you, too?” Maggie could not see Lizzie very well in the dark, but there was no mistaking the horror and dismay in her tone. “What will I do then?”

“You will become a great lady, that’s what, and erect statues to our memory in the town square. Now, go, and quickly, before they finish.”

“But what are you—”

“Lizzie! Go!”

Her cousin was no fool. She could see that they had no choice—they must separate or Claude would be borne away under the water and at best, used as leverage against their grandparents. At worst? Maggie could not bear to think of it.

As the sounds of Lizzie’s hasty climb up the cliff path faded, Maggie turned her attention back to the
sawan
and surveyed the situation with all the keenness of a mind focused by fear. She did not care two hoots about this illicit importing business, but she did care deeply about Claude. Under that flippant and fashionable exterior was a kind and merry heart, and she would do everything in her power to save him from his own foolishness.

The tide was halfway out of the little cove now, exposing more rocks and sand. They could not stay much longer—the
navire
was already moving farther out into deeper water, which meant a greater risk of exposure. It would submerge soon. She left her safe hiding place in the dark crevice and crept down onto the beach, hoping against hope that none of the busy figures inside would look out and see that one of the shadows between the rocks was moving.

She reached the arch of the
sawan
and pressed herself against the damp stone, then took a breath and slipped inside. Her boots sank into the wet sand, and the smell of cold seaweed and strong tobacco assaulted her nose. She found half a refuge behind the coping of the arch, and squeezed as far as she could behind it to watch the frantic activity inside.

The
sawan
was lit by the
chaloupes’
running lights and by a series of activated moonglobes set in niches above the landing. Already the stack of crates on the quay was taller than a man, and took up nearly all of the flat space. The
chaloupes
themselves no longer floated; they sat upon the sand on wheels that clearly retracted into their bodies when they weren’t needed. They were nearly empty, and as she watched, the fishermen hefted the last of the crates out of the third one, handing it up end over end in a human chain to be added to the larger stack.

Fascinated, Maggie studied them, plans and possibilities flicking through her mind. And then something caught her attention about the hull of the first
chaloupe
, which was closest to her, preparing to tow the others out into deeper water.

Its top half was constructed of thick glass, which divided along a brass seam to retract into the hull so that it could be loaded. An engine grumbled in the stern, where below, a heavy metal connector linked it to the next like a train car.

Something was stamped into the metal, the way pleasure craft had the name of the boat painted on the stern. Maggie squinted.

“That’s the lot, boys!” the man from the Americas shouted, and Maggie jumped and hit her head on the coping. Up on the landing, a bag exchanged hands, no doubt payment for an unexpected night’s work.

Rubbing her sore noggin, she watched as the Cornishmen ran their rowboat into the water remaining in the
sawan
, and then they shoved the oars in the locks and rowed out of there as fast as they had come in.

Now there were fewer men to see her, and the
chaloupe
lay between them. She crept closer to investigate. What did it say? Could it help them identify who these people were and where they might be going?

She crouched next to the rounded vessel, the ruffles on the bottom of her black petticoat dragging in the wet. Letters were stamped in the brass hull.

M.A.M.W.

Maggie drew in a long breath as memory swept over her in a wave.

A bullet casing from a shot that had nearly cost the life of a dear friend. A mechanical device within that dripped acid, eating through every organic thing it touched—including human flesh. A tiny stamp bearing initials just like these.

Meriwether-Astor Munitions Works.

The man who had tried to kill them all and bring on a world war five years ago had not, it seemed, stayed on his own side of the sea.

Panting heavily from her climb up the cliff path, Lizzie ran through the rose garden, heedless of the thorny bushes catching at her skirts. She took the stairs two at a time and dashed down the corridor to her grandparents’ room.

“Grandfather!” She pounded on the door with a fist. “Grandfather, wake up!”

No movement came from within.

“Grandfather!”

Were they gone? Were they
dead?

Lizzie wrenched open the door and flung herself through it, to be brought up like a runaway horse on the thick rug between door and bed.

Her grandparents stood at the window in their dressing-gowns, watching the sea.
Neptune’s Maid
was invisible from this angle, but they might have seen her surface earlier.

“Grandfather, you must come quickly! There are smugglers in the cove!”

He did not respond. Grandmother, however, turned toward her and frowned. “Keep your voice down, dear. You will wake the servants, if you have not already.”

“But Grandmother—”

“We know.”

“But—”

“It is none of your affair. Go to bed, where young ladies who
are
young ladies should be, instead of galloping about in the middle of the night like fishermen’s daughters from downalong.”

“
Will
you stop interrupting me?” If her grandmother was not inclined to be civil, then that freed Lizzie from any obligation to be the same. “They have taken Claude! You must come at once and do whatever they say so they do not take him away.”

This finally made her grandfather turn from his contemplation of the moonlight on the waves. “Claude is there? How can this be? I thought he had come in and gone to bed.”

“Well, he didn’t. He was drinking in the taverns and—oh, that doesn’t matter now. They have taken him aboard. You must come with me. We don’t have much time.”

“I am afraid that is impossible.”

“How on earth can you say that? They know that you will not cooperate with the
next phase
, whatever that is, and to ensure you do, they plan to kidnap him!”

“You have misunderstood,” Grandfather said. “These are local men, Elizabeth, whose families have been in the smuggling and wrecking trades along these shores for centuries. They all know my grandson and will not harm him.”

“Why should they?” Grandmother put in. “They are not so stupid as to endanger their livelihood.”

“Those men did not look like ordinary wreckers and smugglers to me,” she said. “They looked organized and well funded—and
Neptune’s Maid
is no fishing ketch.”

“Are you so familiar with the vessels used in Cornwall?” Grandfather asked. “Perhaps a few among them have the brains to make their trade lucrative.”

“As do you.” Lizzie could hardly believe her own temerity. At any moment they would toss her from the room—but until they did, and since her urgent message had got no reception at all, she would find out all she could. “How many know you are keeping the Seacombe Steamship Company afloat on smuggled goods?”

“Elizabeth, really,” Grandmother sniffed. “Must you use such incendiary language? Seacombes have been importing goods from the Americas since the days of Good Queen Bess. It is hardly likely that an edict from our present queen that has no basis in common sense should get in the way of a tradition of hundreds of years’ standing.”

“But it is illegal. All imports are to come on Count von Zeppelin’s ships.”

“Ridiculous.”

“We import from France the same way we always have,” Grandfather said. “The demand for goods is simply too high to limit its satisfaction to one shipping company—especially one run by a foreigner.”

Lizzie ground her molars together and with heroic self-control did not leap to Uncle Ferdinand’s defense. “And how do they get to France from the Americas?”

“I do not know, nor do I care,” Grandfather said heavily. “I am quite astonished at your quick apprehension of these matters, Elizabeth. I had not supposed you to have the mental acuity for it.”

Control your temper and stick to facts.
“I took firsts in German, French, and mathematics in school. We studied economics and politics as well. The Bavarian educational system is quite different from the one here. They do not assume that every young lady is going to marry and keep house upon graduation. But enough of that—are you really going to do nothing about Claude?”

Grandfather turned back to the window. “There is no need to worry. Though the pigeon did not come, everything is well in hand as usual, if your report is true.”

How could he be so cavalier about the safety of his grandson and heir? Lizzie could not fathom it. But then she fixed on something he’d just said. “A pigeon? Where would it have come? They do not come to fixed addresses.” Not unless someone here was as clever as Lewis about tinkering with the pigeons’ innards, which wasn’t likely. Not in Cornwall, where they still used horses and buggies.

“For heaven’s sake, Elizabeth, is there no end to your questions?” Grandmother demanded.

“No,” Lizzie said quite honestly.

“Let this be the last one, then, and you will go to bed. When the cargo is ready to ship, the pigeons come to
Demelza
, moored in the harbor. Someone then gets the message to us. Now, are you satisfied?”

But the last one hadn’t come to
Demelza
. It had gone to
Athena
. Why? It couldn’t have been misdirected, because who here knew the Lady’s registry code? How could the pigeon have gotten confused? What did airship and steamship have in common?

Parts? Magnetic devices? Messenger cages?

“Did you build
Demelza
?” she asked, ignoring Grandmother, who threw up her hands in impatience that Lizzie was still here, still asking questions.

“No,” Grandfather said. “I bought her when I was in New York, several years back. She used to run sugar between there, the Louisiana Territory, and the West Indies.”

New York. Who else did she know who owned a shipping company and was based in New York? “Was she a Meriwether-Astor ship?”

“In fact, she was. Again you surprise me. That outfit is out of business now, I understand, and no wonder. Terrible management. Meriwether-Astor was selling off his assets, and I picked her up for a song.”

That was the connection.

Athena
had been a Meriwether-Astor ship, too, before the Lady had stolen her. The pigeon must somehow have responded to her signal, not
Demelza
’s, and brought them the message instead of Grandfather.

If it had not, she and Maggie would be sleeping peacefully and not worrying themselves to death about a danger that no one but they seemed to comprehend.

“Grandfather, the captain of
Neptune’s Maid
said something about a ‘second phase,’ and that was why they took Claude aboard. He said you weren’t cooperating with it. What did he mean?”

Both her grandparents stiffened as though turned to stone.

“Elizabeth,” Grandmother said to the windowpane in a tone similar to the one the Lady used when she was about to shoot something, “for the last time, go to bed.”

And Lizzie’s temper, which most of the time she managed to keep under control, boiled over with a vengeance. “I shan’t! I do not understand why the two of you are so cavalier about Claude being taken aboard a great bloody undersea dirigible. He’s going to be used as leverage for this ‘second phase’ and there you stand, as cool and uncaring as if he were going to be late to lunch!”

Her grandfather’s knees buckled. Grandmother got a shoulder under his armpit just in time.

“What did you say?” someone asked in a ghost of a voice, all color leached out of it by terror.

Lizzie’s panic came roaring back in a devastating wave. “For heaven’s sake!” she shouted. “It’s what I’ve been saying all this time!
Neptune’s Maid
is no fishing ketch, it’s a
navire
—an undersea vessel of some kind—and they’ve taken Claude aboard intending to use him to make you do what they want! Now, would you come before they submerge and we lose them?”

“You did not say—?” Grandmother croaked, since it was clear Grandfather could not speak, though his mouth worked. “But of course it is a fishing ketch. These are our local men.”

“Not unless your locals speak with French and Texican accents.”

With a cry, Grandfather crumpled. “They would not—he promised—”

“Howel!” Grandmother, trying to hold him up, was borne to the floorboards with him. “Elizabeth, run for Nancarrow. We must have a doctor immediately!”

“But Claude and Maggie—”

“Elizabeth!” her grandmother shrieked, on her knees, her face as gray as moonlight, her eyes wild. “Run!”

Lizzie ran. She got Nancarrow. Who sent the boot-boy for the doctor. Who came.

At least, she assumed he came. Lizzie gave up on a household helpless in its uproar and ran back across the lawn. If anyone was to help Claude and Maggie, it would have to be herself.

She slid halfway down the headland path on her behind, and wound up on all fours in the sand at the bottom. She scrambled up and ran as though the devil himself chased her, into the cove—

—empty—

—into the
sawan
—

—empty—

Empty but for a ton of illegal goods, several crates of fine Kintuck bourbon, and the tracks of something wheeled in the sand, which would be washed away when the tide came in.

She was too late.

Neptune’s Maid
had gone, taking the only two members of her family she cared about deep under the sea, where she could not follow.