Odette Speex: Time Traitors Book 1

Odette Speex

Time Traitors: Book I

by

Padgett Lively

Mar y Mariposa Press

Odette Speex

Time Traitors: Book I

© 2014 by Padgett Lively

ISBN: 978-0-9960232-1-4

All rights reserved. No part of this text may be used or reproduced, downloaded, transmitted, or decompiled in any manner whatsoever, whether electronic or mechanical, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal. Please purchase only authorized editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

∞

For Donna

Prologue

London 1765

Sin was the
source of his wealth. Moral transgressions were his bread and butter, and his services were in high demand.

He didn’t look the part of a secret operative. Short and squat, he was a man in late middle-age with a rather lumpy, nondescript face. He sat in a modest carriage, the implements of his trade neatly packed away and tucked into a hidden compartment beneath his seat.

They consisted of nothing more sinister than paint and brushes, a palette and several small ovals of ivory. As an artist of modest repute, his public paintings drew only occasional praise and very infrequent commerce. It was his clandestine work that provided him the luxury of a private coach, a fashionable address, and a much younger wife.

He leaned back into the cushions and stared blankly out the darkened carriage window. This latest commission had given him much to consider.

He had always been grimly amused by what preoccupied his rich and powerful patrons. Surrounded by abundance and completely immured from want, they were obsessed with illicit affairs and illegitimate children.

He couldn’t begin to count the number of times he was called upon to paint the visage of a young lover, or a child born on the wrong side of the blanket. More common still were the noble patrons whose images were given to those they could not openly acknowledge.

Typically miniatures these paintings did not grace the ornate galleries of grand houses, but were tucked away in linen drawers, jewelry boxes, and breast pockets. They were not admired by the fashionable elite, but gazed upon in private by eyes expressive of need and yearning or haunted by loss and guilt.

Though he had a sharp eye and delicate hand, he was paid more for his discretion than his skill. It was an invaluable quality, for his subjects never failed to indulge in conversation. They divulged secrets to him like a confessor. The spoiled denizens of the aristocracy blabbed on about their exploits as though he were a mute eunuch from some far eastern court.

As was the fashion, they practiced an affected air of nonchalance. But he saw the fear. It hovered barely hidden in the corners of their eyes, or blurred the firm line of a noble jaw. He couldn’t imagine it was the fear of discovery. They all possessed the same banal failing, the same commonplace sins. Scandal was just a charade—a grand farce. It injured no one of consequence.

The fear, however, was real. He began to suspect a subconscious tell. Like a twitch, it revealed the unacknowledged dread of a changing world. The loss of power and wealth was secondary only to their impending irrelevance. It might not happen in the next decade or in the next century, but it would happen. He had heard it spoken of openly in the streets and coffeehouses. More importantly, it was acted upon in the colonies.

He smiled to himself. He would not be the one to reveal them. Let the world believe their confident show of narcissism. He made a tidy living from their elaborate pretense and self-deception.

The carriage jolted as it turned onto a quiet side street. He was returning home from this most recent commission. Like all the others, it had been accomplished in secret.

But in every other way, it was different. She was different. Not a member of the nobility, she was famous nonetheless—infamous really, if one believed all the stories.

As far as he knew, her likeness had never before been rendered on canvas. Not even the miniature portraits that were his stock and trade. She had insisted on accuracy and resisted his inclination to soften the jagged scar on her forehead or smooth out the fine lines from around her eyes.

She had said very little and told him nothing of her reasons for the painting. He covered this unaccustomed silence with stories and anecdotes garnered from his noble patrons. For once he had been indiscreet, but the inherent kindness of her smile encouraged confidences.

He wondered if the rumors were true. He hoped they were. Studying her face he saw courage and humor and… something else. It was a kind of calm acceptance, only stronger. He struggled to put it into words. Serenity, he thought with satisfaction, it was serenity.

She wore her commonness like a badge of honor. She recognized no superior class of people.

His smile broadened with a new certainty. She was what they truly feared—the force of the inevitable—the future.

Chapter 1

New York City, 2028

Odette stepped off
the curb only to jump back again and curse under her breath. The speeding hansom cab hit a pothole and sprayed her with last night’s rain. It splattered her knee-high boots with mud and left the hem of her woolen cloak dripping.

She glanced up at the heavily painted face in the carriage window—all rouge and false eyelashes. The aristocrat looked with distaste at Odette’s immodest garb and turned away, her long, straight nose held at a disdainful angle

“Boiler Hag!” Odette yelled after the cab, making sure no one was around to actually hear her.

It wouldn’t do to get another citation. One more and she would lose her position in the company. “You’ll find yourself on the Undesirable Roll if you’re not careful,” Richard had cautioned her.

She sighed and brushed the water as best she could from her cloak. She had been an “Undesirable” two times already in her young life. And no, she didn’t want to go there a third time.

Unable to find a job, she had relied on her brother and the kindness of friends until her name dropped off the Roll and people would hire her again. Each time, for six long months, she had continuously changed residences and searched the underground economy for menial work.

She smiled to herself. At least the last time had been worth it. For once to see the smirk wiped off Drake’s face. The red velvet wedding cake dripping in clumps from his perfectly tumbled locks and meticulously groomed moustache. She laughed aloud at the memory and crossed the nearly empty street.

Oh yes! That had been worth six months in purgatory. But now she was dancing again. And not even the satisfaction of seeing Charles Drake, Earl of Westchester, covered entirely in frosting was worth giving that up.

She had been lucky. Shouted insults and unconventional dress were minor infractions compared with assaulting a member of the aristocracy. That was a major offense worthy of prison. Even if one’s weapon were merely a piece of wedding cake.

She wasn’t sure how, but Odell had intervened. He had somehow kept her out of jail.

Odell was her inscrutable twin, born two hours earlier and a boy, to their mother’s everlasting disappointment.

He had been a guest at the wedding. A commoner like her, she wasn’t sure how he had wrangled an invitation. She was never sure how he wrangled anything. Odell cultivated an aura of mystery that even she found hard to penetrate.

The marriage of Lady Adriana Treadwell, daughter of the Duke of Hudson, to Sir Robert Leigh had been the event of the New York fashionable season. The entire
haut ton
, society’s crème de la crème, was present.

Odette was part of the hired entertainment. She had danced a very romantic and sensual pas de deux from Romeo and Juliet with her partner, Marco. She thought it was this that had prompted Drake to approach her again after months of ignoring her existence.

Patronage had its perks, and Charles Drake was one of ballet’s most important sponsors. Since those perks usually took the form of a female dancer, Odette had been careful to avoid his notice. It would have been easier if he was repulsive or overtly evil. Instead he was charming and devastatingly handsome.

From the relative anonymity of the corps de ballet, Odette had observed him. She traced his relationships and watched as the subtle cruelty of his behavior emerged. 

Each woman he favored with his attentions was lovely and talented. At parties and important society functions, she would shine like a jewel adorning his arm. She was talked about and written about and admired because
he
admired her. Her time with him might be weeks or months, but the end was always the same. Odette saw these women slowly fade while the brilliance of their abilities drained away. Drifting off like ghosts, they never stayed long after he left them. They were easily forgotten.

She began to think of him as a vampire. Sapping the life force from the chosen ones, he left little heaps of dust in his wake. Like those mythic creatures, he was fascinating and magnetic. Odette was not immune to his charm and understood the pull of his personality.

Eventually she was promoted to soloist and could no longer go unnoticed. Odette was the next bright talent and Lord Westchester pursued her with a frightening single-mindedness. He was at her every performance. He sent her flowers and gifts. He would show up at the after parties, his possessive attention forcing all others from her side. The company’s artistic director took notice and gave her better roles. She was grateful but began to feel trapped.

One triumphant night following a particularly brilliant performance, they had sat together in the gleaming ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria. His long, muscular arm was draped over the back of her chair. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. He was laughing at something one of the other dancers had said. His smile was wide. His brown eyes were warm and inviting. His tailored suit was expensive and impeccable. So handsome, he looked almost unreal.

Confidence and entitlement exuded from him. He had no doubt of her. He wasn’t bothered by her weeks of excuses and evasions. He never questioned for a moment where she would end up.

Odette felt the heat of anger steal over her. As a commoner, she might rise to the level of comfort, even wealth. However, the portals of power and high society would always be closed to her. She wasn’t his equal. She would always be his inferior. He knew this. To him she was just a plaything. Her life… her desires and ambitions meant nothing.

Odette couldn’t figure out later what exactly had come over her. She only knew she was tired of being frightened—tired of fighting the inevitable. She would lose, but it would be on her terms.

So she decided. Just this once, she would go with him. Just once, and then it would be over. Not weeks or months of dangling on his arm. She would not let him bleed her dry.

He showed no surprise when she agreed to go home with him. His expression was satisfied, even bored. He played this game and always won. But Odette was on fire. Fueled by a mixture of desire and revenge, she seared herself into his flesh. She made him pay dearly for those inferior women. Women like her, whom he had used and cast aside.

The next morning she awoke spent, her fantasies quenched. With a returning sense of self, she slipped quietly out of his bed in the early pre-dawn and returned home to scrub her skin raw and forget. Unfortunately for Odette, Lord Westchester did not forget.

In the days following, Drake became angry and petulant at her refusal to repeat the experience. He was uncharacteristically impatient and demanding. Ever sensitive to the delicate feelings of his wealthy benefactors, the artistic director advised Odette to cooperate.

She was furious, but didn’t know what to do. She tried to ignore the gossip and whispered innuendo that followed her backstage. The ballet world was very competitive and, at times, even cut-throat. Others equally talented waited in the wings, others who would be more accommodating.

The pressure began to show in her dancing. She hid her desperation, but it was palpable to those who loved her.

The package arrived at her flat in the hands of a young courier. It contained a note from Odell and a thick document. The note merely said, “A necessary evil.” It was a joke, but still she was stunned. Odell had arranged for her a Paper Liaison.

It was a sham. Everyone knew it. A Paper Liaison was a contract with a person who didn’t exist. Or they did exist but only on paper. It was expensive and tightly wrapped in the complexities of the twenty-first century legal system—a system that put the Victorian legal labyrinth to shame. How Odell had managed it, she didn’t know and was too grateful to ask.

The contract showed her bound as mistress to another member of the nobility and afforded the protection of his fake name. It had to be honored.

Drake swallowed the insult with casual charm and moved on. But her career stalled.

Months later, on the day of the wedding, he approached her again and stood beside her at the reception. His strong hand traced a line down her spine. He leaned close. His whispered intentions tickled her ear. Odette’s knees wobbled and her stomach clenched, not only in fear, but also with desire. She hated herself for it. That’s when it happened.

It was instinctual—an act of self-preservation. The piece of cake was in her hand one second. The next, it was smeared all over Lord Westchester’s face. Her blaze of triumph at his genuine look of shock was fleeting. She saw Drake quickly collect himself. Saying something witty, he took one long, shapely finger and wiped a tuft of frosting from his face. He licked it off seductively. His lips curled in a lazy, vicious smile.

There was roaring in her ears and the blood rushed to her feet. She felt she would faint.

Marco grabbed her arm and hurried her from the room while everyone crowded around Drake. “Good God, Odette! What have you done?” he hissed and led her out into the night. He made what seemed like random turns down side streets and alleyways.

She blabbered incoherently and then blinked in confusion to find herself suddenly confronted by her brother. “Thanks, Marco, I’ll take it from here,” Odell said in his calm, exasperated voice.

And he had. He hid her until a decision was made. She would be taking a second trip to the Undesirable Roll. It could have been worse, much worse. Commoners were often sent to the prison for less.

Odette’s high-heeled boots struck the sidewalk decisively and echoed off the walls of the deserted neighborhood. The street lamps had dimmed with the grayness of dawn. Only the holographic posters flickered now across the brick walls. They advertised everything from soap to sexual services. She didn’t live in the best part of town, but it was better than just a few months ago when she had nowhere to live.

After the cake incident, her career was left in tatters. Even after her removal from the Roll, she couldn’t return to the glittering world of classical ballet. Lord Westchester was too powerful. No one would dream of hiring her. So she had turned to the only available alternative, working as a dancer in clubs and taverns.

It was perhaps the lowest point in her life. If it had only been the folk dances and wild revelry that often accompanied heavy drinking, she could have tolerated it better. But the barkeeps insisted she and the other girls dress scantily and slither seductively between the drinking customers.

Unlike the aristocratic men who patronize the ballet, these men were of the poorer classes. Odette found her usual disgust at being ogled and groped mixed with pity. Their efforts to attach themselves to her were often acts of desperation. Repressed and overworked, they sought release in sex and alcohol. Trapped like she in a rigid society defined by class. 

Her pity, however, did not extend to accommodating them. Every day was a battle, a fight to maintain her art and self-respect.

Then a miracle happened. She met Richard Atwood and, more importantly, Adelphia, the Duchess of Montagu. They introduced her to another form of dance, where technique was not an end in itself but a means of self-expression.

She loved it, but not at first. It was hard to let go of her aspirations. Classical ballet was the pinnacle of the dancing world. Performances were attended by the rich and famous. Money flowed into the most prestigious companies, and dancers were well compensated.

This was different. Adelphia was different. She was one of those rare creatures, a progressive aristocrat. She modeled herself on the principles of the Enlightenment and sometimes even quoted from the banned works of the American Agitators.

Rumors were that the Duchess of Montagu had once wanted to be a dancer herself, a shocking ambition for a noble woman. More shocking still, was the truth. She had studied with Martha Graham, the radical dancer and choreographer.

Odette turned onto a street of shops and taverns and thought admiringly of Adelphia’s efforts to resurrect Graham’s genius. Like so many before and after her, Martha Graham was an artist virtually erased from history. Her influence deemed so profoundly disturbing as to merit official non-personhood. She had been a ballerina once, a prima ballerina. Her dancing was legendary. As she matured, she introduced her own steps and movements. At first, the aristocrats were indulgent. But then came
Chronicle
.

The performance was part of the King’s Golden Jubilee, a tribute to the country’s greatest ballerina. As a free concert for the masses, it was staged in Central Park. 

There were no beautiful sets or backdrops. No smiling ballerinas or gallant ballet dancers. There was only darkness and starkly lit dancers. Their movements were beautiful yet painful. Pushing up against resistance, they seemed to strain under the heavy weight of oppression. It touched the audience as nothing else could have. They saw reflected in the dance their own subjugation and reacted violently.

It took the authorities three days to quell the riots. Loss of life numbered in the thousands and the property damage was enormous. Most of those killed were people of the peasant class, but some aristocrats as well had been caught up in the raging mob.

The crackdown was brutal, but in the confusion Martha Graham escaped. For seven years she remained at large. She set up temporary studios in safe houses and taught. She urged her students to represent and comment on their society through dance. 

Performances were staged like guerrilla attacks. Often accompanied by a single drum or violin, dancers materialized out of crowds in markets and town squares. The pieces reflected the times. They spoke to the large majority of people who were poor and struggled every day to survive.

Her impact was really very small. After all, what could dancers do against the centuries-old system of privilege and entitlement? But the aristocrats hated her, and eventually she was caught. Martha Graham died in prison over thirty years ago.

Her legacy did not die with her. Adelphia made sure of that.

Odette continued down the street. The morning advanced quickly and she saw shop doors and windows opening to the new day.