The Derring-Do Club and the Empire of the Dead (6 page)

“I was being hidden at the school in order to escape certain forces intent on persuading me to certain actions,” Pieter explained. “You understand?”

“I hadn’t asked.”

“And the gardening because I was bored. I prefer action.”

“I hadn’t asked.”

Earnestine let the awkward silence fill the plush interior, pleased to see the three men, the Gardener’s Hand and his valets, sit more upright and rigid. She was angry: after all, she’d been kidnapped and manhandled and taken on an adventure, so she was going to ignore them and instead stare out of the window at the passing trees. Even if her eyes kept wanting to gaze into his face, she was made of stern stuff and wouldn’t even glance, not once, and it was easy, despite his sparkling blue eyes, for she’d noticed his wry smile mocking her.

“Did you want to ask something?” he said.

“No.”

“Only you keep looking at me.”

“I do not. I simply wanted to know why we’re not going to the school.”

“We’re going to Ravensbruck.”

“And what, pray, is at Ravensbruck?”

“Fresh horses.”

“That is not really an answer.”

“From there we will go to the Eagle’s Claw.”

Earnestine was appalled: “Is that a public house?”

“Hardly,” the man smiled, so pleasingly. “It is my family home, a castle.”

“Really? Will we have tea and scones while you introduce me to your Mama and Papa?”

“My mother is dead and my father, the Crown Prince, is… indisposed,” said Pieter. “As for the rest of my family, you don’t want to meet the dowager Gräfin.”

“Why ever not?”

“You and she are too much alike.”

Miss Georgina

Her first sensations were of varying heat: her head was warm, her body hot and her toes numb, but in between, around her ankles, she was cold. Her internal organs and the very marrow of her bones felt painfully icy. Her ears burned: she heard voices, clear, concise, the clipped retorts of military speech.

“What was she doing out there?”

“She’s not a peasant girl, that’s for sure.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Her hands, smooth and delicate.”

“Merryweather!”

“They are… and she’s c– c– conscious.”

Georgina kept jolly still.

“You’re wrong, she’s still out.”

“Her b– breathing has changed.”

Georgina became aware she wasn’t breathing. She was holding her breath as she tried to work out what breathing was supposed to be like when one was asleep. She gasped when her hands were suddenly enveloped by another, a strong warm palm.

“M– M– Mademoiselle?”

Georgina shifted round, her eyes still tight shut.

“Do you speak English?” he said.

She blinked and then saw the most handsome brown eyes staring back at her, and then, unbidden, she heard her own thoughts articulated aloud.

“You have beautiful eyes,” he said with his deep voice, his male voice, his voice about her, caressing her, “Mademoiselle.”

“Monsieur,” Georgina managed.

“I don’t know why you are telling her that,” said another voice further away. Georgina would have looked, but she couldn’t tear herself away.

He had a nice, caring smile under his neat horseshoe moustache: “Parlez–vous français?”

“Merryweather, no point asking her that.”

“Why not?” said the handsome man… Merryweather.

“Because you can’t speak the lingo,” the other man said. “Once she’s said ‘oui’, your conversation is over. We’ll be in the other room.”

Merryweather looked in the direction of the kerfuffling and chair scraping. He waited until a door shut before turning his attention back to the still rapt Georgina.

“I know you can’t understand me,” he said. “But you are simply the most beautiful girl I’ve ever clapped eyes on. I can’t usually talk to women, typical really, but knowing that you don’t understand a word means that I can somehow… you are beautiful, I’ve said that, with a lovely countenance.”

He smiled, dimples appeared in his cheeks, and he brushed a blond lock of hair away from his forehead.

“I feel like I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“Are you proposing?” Georgina asked politely.

Merryweather leapt to his feet, yanking his hand away from hers as if she was a hot pan and in his haste he tumbled backwards onto the floor.

The door burst open and two other men came in: “Merry?”

“I… I… I…”

“Ah, she’s come round,” said the shorter, before looking across in Georgina’s direction.

“Eng… English,” Merryweather said.

“English?”

“Yes, I am,” Georgina said.

“It… it…”

“That’s right Merry, up you get,” said the taller man as he hauled Merryweather to his feet.

“I’ll… I’ll…”

“Fetch the brandy, excellent.”

Merryweather shuffled off in the wrong direction at first and then found the door to another room.

The tall man thrust his hand forward: “Caruthers, chap here is McKendry.”

“Mac,” said the shorter man.

Georgina shook both the proffered hands, each a firm, solid grip.

“And you’ve met Merry, Captain Arthur Merryweather,” Caruthers continued. “You had a close call. Miss?”

“Georgina, Georgina Deering–Dolittle.”

“Pleased to meet you Miss Deering–Dolittle. Surrey’s a lovely county.”

“I’m not one of the Surrey Deering–Dolittles.”

“Oh… Ah!” said Caruthers, and he smoothed his chevron moustache to hide his embarrassment. “Kent is nice too.”

“What’s the matter with… Arthur?” Georgina asked, pointing at the door through which Merryweather had exited.

“Merry, can’t talk when there’s a Memsahib present.”

“I see.”

“Mac?”

McKendry brought over a white metal mug held in his mittens: “Miss? It’s an old Southern recipe. Use the cloth, it’ll be hot.”

Georgina accepted the proffered cloth and then took hold of the mug.

Merryweather reappeared with a bottle of brandy.

“Ah, yes…” he said and poured a generous measure into the cup with a shaking grip.

At first Georgina felt nothing until her fingers warmed up enough for their nerves to start working. They tingled, a sensation not unlike looking into Merryweather’s eyes. She breathed on the surface and the rising steam seemed to thaw her face.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” said McKendry. “It’s an evil brew, but it’ll get some strength into you.”

Georgina took a sip, scalding her mouth and throat, but it was a welcome feeling.

“Which part of the Home Counties is this from?”

“Not Southern England, Miss. It’s an old Mississippi recipe with just a nip of brandy to get the circulation going,” McKendry explained, pulling lightly on the black chin puff beard beneath his handlebar moustache.

“So how come you were out in the cold?” Caruthers asked.

“Oh!”

Merryweather took the cup from her, although whether he was catching it or whether he’d sensed the imminent risk of it tumbling to the floor, she didn’t know.

She stared wild–eyed at Caruthers, Merryweather and McKendry as if to assign a specific responsibility to each in turn.

“Men! Guns… Creatures.”

She was on her feet, or rather her legs gave way beneath her and she had to grab hold of Merryweather.

“We must go back,” Georgina said. “My sisters… the school.”

“There’s a school nearby?” Caruthers asked.

“Yes, a prison of a place, but still… we were attacked.”

“What h– happened?” Merryweather asked.

“Some foreigners attacked it, soldiers with peasant creatures. I did say.”

The three men sat at the table, Caruthers pulling his chair back so that he could see Georgina. They looked serious, but none of them moved towards the door.

“Now!” Georgina insisted.

The men exchanged a glance and Caruthers gave the slightest of head shakes.

“You can’t just sit there,” Georgina insisted, “you have to–”

“Miss!” Caruthers leant forward holding up his hands placating. “It’s night and there’s a blizzard.”

“It’s not a blizzard,” Georgina interrupted.

“I grant you it isn’t, technically, merely snow, but enough to make us walk round in circles, particularly as we don’t know where we’re going. We wait until first light and see if the conditions have improved.”

“What do you mean first light?”

“It’s n– n– night,” said Merryweather. “You’ve been asleep a n– night and a day.”

“No, I can’t have been. We have to go. Now.”

Gently, Merryweather put his hand on her shoulder, only to be snubbed when Georgina wrenched herself away.

“Well, if you won’t, then I will,” said Georgina, standing with the full intention of shaming these cowards into action. Caruthers just sat back and folded his arms, the others followed suit.

“We admire your spunk,” he said, “we really do, but you need to warm up and get some of Mac’s soup down you. No–one’s going anywhere until we know what we’re getting into.”

The others nodded and exchanged glances.

“This is only a holiday, after all,” said McKendry.

Georgina drew breath to scream at them, but Merryweather put a kindly hand back on her shoulder.

“T– t– tell us.”

Miss Charlotte

There was a sharp knock at the door, three taps, precisely spaced.

Charlotte jerked awake not knowing where she was: a cabin, an airship.

“Come in,” she said.

No, wait, she wasn’t sure who she was supposed to be, but she knew she was supposed to be Bavarian. Or was it Belgian?

The door was unlocked and a tall man dressed smartly in military uniform clicked his heels and bowed in the doorway. He had a fine black moustache and pointed beard, strong and full, and he looked jolly important.

“Your Royal Highness, you speak English?”

“I do,” said Charlotte. Wasn’t a Belgian accent sort of French? “Oui.”

“Your English is very good,” he said.

Charlotte reddened: “Thank vous.”

“Excellent, I am Graf Zala at your service.”

Charlotte liked that: “My service,” she repeated, trying to sound formal: her personal reaction to the man, this imposing man, was one of admiration. He did know how to wear a military uniform. However, she wasn’t sure how Princess Wotnot would behave in the circumstances.

“Ja. I hope the delay was not overly troublesome.”

“Not at all, Herr Graf.”

“Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“Why was the door locked?”

“For your safety during landing and take–off.”

“Oh yes.”

“We made a short stop, but now we are properly en route I wondered if you would care to join us on the bridge?”

“Ooh, gosh, yes please.”

It was best to play along, she thought, and she might learn something of use and also the bridge sounded jolly exciting.

“I also thought you may consider changing into a more suitable outfit for flying.”

This just got better and better, she thought.

He clicked his heels and bowed before indicating to his left. An attendant in a white uniform quickly entered and deposited a neat stack of clothing on the bed. The subordinate kept his head down throughout and made no eye contact at all. Charlotte found herself revelling in the sense of importance that came from her new status.

“When you are ready, simply follow the gangway thus,” said the Graf and he indicated towards the bow of the vessel. He bowed again and closed the door. It was not relocked.

Charlotte wondered if she should take advantage of this liberty, but obviously there was no way off the Zeppelin at this altitude, and so she turned to examine the clothes. They made up a uniform, somewhat imaginative in its design. Whereas, the army and the navy had long traditions to maintain, the new flying service displayed both innovation and practicality in their outfits. This one was made of a thick material, plain without any of the frippery sometimes associated with the military. Charlotte liked all the braid and brass, but somehow this seemed more appropriate particularly when weight was an issue. It was buff and–

Trousers!

And boots!

Charlotte fumbled with the buttons in her rush to change and even decided to divest herself of her corset.

This was heaven; she was literally flying through heaven.

The trousers felt strange and it took her a few moments to get the flares to stick out properly. Her boots were loose. She admired herself in the mirror, pulling the buttoned up tunic down a few times to make it straight. Her stupid chest stuck out in a most non–regulation manner, but even so she liked the final effect. She tried a variety of stances, one hand behind her back, both, arms folded, attention.

This was the future: soon the British would have a Flying Corps and Her Majesty’s Aerial Ships would patrol the skies. With the Suffragette movement, perhaps… yes, Charlotte imagined herself as the Captain of such a ship. HMAS Dreadnought, an ironclad airsteamer, protecting the Empire in far–flung places under the direction of the First Sky Lord. Hands behind back, feet apart, head up – definitely.

The corridor was uphill, the Zeppelin was climbing, but there were thick ropes on either side to act as handrails.

With the tiniest of coughs, Charlotte ventured onto the flight deck. Graf Zala turned and nodded appreciatively as he took in her buff–coloured uniform, its front button smartly to one side, the trousers flared at her thighs and her calf length boots black and polished, one solidly on the wooden deck and the other hitched up on its toe.

“Smart,” he said.

Charlotte reddened slightly.

“Come, come,” Zala said waving her in. “This is where we control the Zeppelin.”

Charlotte trod firmly into the room and took in the polished brass fittings and controls. It was modelled on a ship, a naval tradition transformed for the modern age, streamlined and new. Charlotte was drawn to the huge wheel, a wooden set of spokes that dominated the centre of the flight deck.

The Graf sent the Ensign away with an imperious gesture and held the wheel in his gloved hand.

“Here,” Zala said, “take the wheel.”

Charlotte stepped up: “May I?”