The Meridian Gamble (23 page)

Marjorie looks over at me, when she
finally tires of staring at herself. And she curls the corners of her mouth downward
in an exaggerated pout.

“Don’t worry, little sister. You’ll
be making your debut soon enough. You’ll have your chance to wear the emerald
choker. And perhaps by then they’ll have forgotten how stunning it looks on
me.”

Marjorie laughs, but I refuse to
let her bait me.

“You are the one who is meant to
wear the necklace, not I. It matches the color of your eyes.”

“Yes, you are quite right! Your
wisdom fills my heart with joy.”

And she laughs in delight once
again, though I only roll my eyes.

The door to the shop opens, and
Mrs. Edmington and her daughter Celeste walk in. Mrs. Edmington is an older
woman, seemingly too old to have a daughter Celeste’s age. She could be her
grandmother, and dresses in too many layers of dark velvet, like an old
dowager. And though her clothes are poorly draped, they are very expensive.
Celeste is a sallow girl, and a bit on the plain side, but it doesn’t matter.
The Edmington family is extremely rich, and probably for this reason, she is
one of Marjorie’s favorite friends to gossip with.

My sister looks up with a smile as
they enter.

“Hello Celeste! You’re just in time
to see my new dress for the Admiral’s Ball. But you must not whisper a word
about it to anyone. I intend for it to be a great surprise, and I’ll not have
Coleen Fairview trying to match its color.”

“It’s very nice,” Celeste says,
almost coldly.

The girl smiles and looks away
shyly, going to sit with her Mother, as more tea is brought in for them to
drink.

And it seems odd. Usually Celeste
would have run up to Marjorie to coo over her new fashion, to giggle with
delight over which boy might like it the best. And Marjorie looks to me, not
Madeline, with one eyebrow raised, ever so slightly. She knows I have a talent
for noticing the subtleties in the world around me, even if it is a
self-proclaimed one. And something is very wrong with the world around us
today.

Mother finally says something to
break the awkward silence, and perhaps fish around for a reason why the
Edmingtons are acting so strangely.

“It’s so nice to see you, Lydia.
Are you shopping for your dress for the Admiral’s Ball?”

“Yes. And I do hope we find
something soon. It’s going to be such a busy day, what with the tea we are to
attend at the Lawlor’s.”

She smiles, seemingly pleased with
herself.

“Oh, are you and Celeste having tea
with Mrs. Lawlor?”

“We are. Along with a few other
friends,” Mrs. Edmington says. She has a slight lisp, and extends her “s” just
a bit, making “friends” sound like a hiss.

And even if she does not intend to
sound malicious, I suddenly know for certain that I am not imagining things.
There is something amiss. It is no longer just a vague notion that troubles me
at the breakfast table. The act of excluding us from a social event is
practically an affront on Mrs. Lawlor’s part, and I look to Mother, who manages
to keep a straight face, despite her confusion.

“Gregory’s mother is having tea
today? And she did not include us?” Marjorie whines.

“Perhaps she was distracted,” Mrs.
Edmington says. “Mrs. Lawlor has been spending a great deal of time with her
new friend, Mrs. Price-Pearce. In fact, they just recently visited the
Price-Pearce estate in the country this past weekend. And it would seem that
Gregory is quite taken with her daughter, Philippa.”

Marjorie’s face falls, and she
looks a bit green, not unlike her emerald dress.

“Yes, well, I will have to send a
card to Mrs. Lawlor, to let her know that we quite miss the pleasure of her
company. I do hope she does not come to forget her other friends entirely. It
would be such an unfortunate thing.”

There is almost a subtle threat to
Mother’s words, but Mrs. Edmington barely reacts. In fact, she smiles, smugly,
which seems to confuse Mother even more.

And Mother turns away, to address
the shopkeeper.

“Have the dress sent to our home.
And we will need your seamstress to call on us, to make sure it fits properly.”

Mrs. Edmington turns to look at us
one last time, as the dress is taken away.

“You will look quite lovely in the
frock at the Admiral’s Ball,” she says to Marjorie. “At least there’s still
that.”

Mother inhales
just once, deeply, and gathers her things. And she leads us out of the shop.

Marjorie is absolutely frantic on
the ride home, and I cannot help but to feel sorry for her. Her love for
Gregory Lawlor means everything to her, and suddenly, the relationship seems in
peril. I’m sure it must be upsetting, to have your world change so drastically,
in a moment.

“Mother, who is this Philippa
Price-Pearce? I haven’t even heard of the girl.”

“You know very well that you have
met her several times. Their family owns factories, dear. Textile mills. Which
have apparently become highly profitable, of late.”

“This is wrong!” Marjorie
continues. ”Clearly they are using the Lawlors to claw their way into pleasant
society. Surely Mrs. Lawlor realizes she risks her social standing by
associating with these people, does she not?”

“Mrs. Lawlor risks nothing. If the
Price-Pearces are as rich as people say, they will not only find their place in
pleasant society, they may quite well wind up at its very center.”

“Well, perhaps we should have
Father buy us a textile mill, if they are in fashion of late. Or does his
company not make enough on its own?”

“Of course it does, dear.”

But the words catch in Mother’s
throat as she says them. And again, I worry.

“I cannot believe that Gregory is
lowering himself to fraternizing with this Philippa Price-Pearce creature. In
fact, I do not believe it. And I shall be quite cross with him the next time I
see him if he has mistakenly given her the impression that she is anything more
than just a passing acquaintance.”

Mother looks to Marjorie sadly,
seemingly frustrated that she does not understand.

“I suggest you forget about Gregory
Lawlor, dear. There are many other eligible young men in London. And you should
be concentrating your efforts on them.”

“But I don’t want other eligible
young men. I want Gregory.”

“Sadly, what we want and what we
get in life are sometimes two very different things.”

And a look of pain writes itself
across Marjorie’s face. But slowly, she looks to me, and her expression turns
to one of anger. I cannot help but to think that Marjorie believes I have
somehow brought this misfortune into existence by voicing my fears. But,
perhaps it is for the best. Despite her affection for him, Gregory Lawlor is
less than a good match for my sister. He is a callous young man who would have
thought of her as little more than a bauble to carry on his arm were they to actually
marry.

My real concern is for Father, and
the troubles he may be facing. Because certainly, something is out of balance
if our social position has suddenly dropped to such a degree that we are no
longer welcome at the Lawlor’s.

And I only
wish there was some way I could be of some use to him, to help him to escape
from whatever dilemma he faces.

We have a quiet dinner that night
with little conversation, yet I can see on Marjorie’s face that she wants to
say something. She longs to ask Father what is wrong with the company, to learn
if our family’s finances are in trouble. Marjorie can barely hold her questions
in, but even still, she will say nothing. My sister is smart enough to know
that Father will not appreciate being interrogated by one of his daughters,
even though it kills her to remain silent. Better to let Mother handle the
matter, and glean what information we can from her afterwards.

When our meal is done, I go to bed
early. No one seems to mind, as a sombre mood hangs over the house. I turn out
my lights, and burrow beneath my comforters, desperately trying to convince
myself that I still feel safe in this place. But I lie awake for hours with
worried thoughts circling my mind.

And late in the night, I hear
something, a noise which seems out of place at this late hour. I have always
had sharp ears, and though my room is on the second floor of our home, I can
hear the sound of strangers visiting in the middle of the night, coming from
somewhere downstairs.

I sit up in my bed, trembling, straining
to listen.

The voices are masculine ones,
entering the front lobby of our home. And after some muted conversation, I am
left with the impression that they have moved behind a closed door, perhaps the
one to Father’s study. And the sound of these invaders frightens me, as I
cannot help but to think that they somehow relate to our newfound problems. Are
creditors taking away our home? Will they come and drag me from my room? This
cannot be the case, Father would never let our affairs fall into such a state
of disrepair. And yet, the irrational fears spin out of control in my mind.

I simply must know who they are and
why they are here.

I have always wanted a life of
adventure and excitement, yet still, I hesitate, afraid to leave the confines
of my bed. But how can I be a coward now when necessity presents itself? I
realize that I cannot, though I still wonder what I should do. And I look to my
soul mate Saga for advice.

Of course, Saga is not ensconced in
a spacious manor in central London. She is a lowly slave in the temple of
Pharaoh, a servant girl. Her life held little value in society at that time, so
she had little to lose through behaving inappropriately. Other than her life.
But within my story, she eventually rises to become a part of the royal family,
and helps them to overcome the nefarious forces in the kingdom.

Though she is only a fictional
character, thinking about Saga somehow gives me the strength to do what I must
do.

It is horrible on my part to
exhibit such inappropriate behavior, to leave my room in the middle of the
night. Mother will be extremely disappointed if she sees me, and will lock me
in for a week, at the very least. But I don’t care. A compulsion builds within
me, and I have to risk everything.

I put on a thin robe, and step out
onto the second floor landing, which feels foreign to me at night. I never walk
here at such hours. My bare feet touch the costly red and gold carpets Mother
took great pains to import, yet another sin on my part, and I venture forth on
my quest. Luckily, I am quite skilled at creeping along silently, if need be.
It is a game we would play as children, to try to sneak up on each other as
quietly as possible, to frighten one another. It was a small thrill we would
find in our otherwise docile lives. And I was always the best at the game. But
I would be a fool to try to creep past Mother’s room, even with my talent. She
is the one who I have inherited my sharp ears from.

Though my room is at the end of the
second floor landing, there is a servant’s staircase nearby, an enclosed one,
designed to appear out of sight. Mother had the house built this way, to keep
the serving class from using the same walkways we do as much as possible, to
keep them in their place. And there are few servants on the premises at this
hour, so my risk is worth taking. I open the door just a crack to squeeze
through, and traverse the stairs one at a time at an agonizingly slow pace, to
keep the boards from creaking. And each time the stairs groan beneath my feet,
I stop, as though someone has stabbed a knife through my heart.

It takes forever to creep down in
the darkness, yet I do so with a degree of confidence that no one can hear. If
they do, it will only be because they can listen with a supernatural power.

Luckily, the door to the servants’
stairwell lets out near Father’s study, and when I step out into the first
floor hallway, I realize that this is the place where our visitors are. I can
hear murmurs from behind the closed door, but they are not loud enough for me
to understand what they are saying, and I must step closer.

When I am 10 feet from the door, I
find I can recognize one of the voices. It is Mr. Stimwell, Father’s most
trusted executive at the company. He is a man from the lower classes, an expert
in the coal mines we harvest to garner our great wealth. He has vast knowledge
of the industry, gleaned from working amongst the mines his whole life. And the
poor man has a perpetual cough, which I fear has been developed from inhaling
too much of the dust. Even now I can hear the muffled sounds of his lungs
expelling from behind the door. Father trusts him implicitly, and it gives me a
certain peace of mind to know he is there.

And if Mr. Stimwell is here, then
Father’s late night meeting must certainly relate to his business.

There are other voices I don’t
recognize, and for some reason, I am certain I would not know them even if I
could hear better. I feel they are individuals unfamiliar to me. It is
difficult for me to understand what they are saying, but there is one word I
can hear distinctly, repeated again and again; “railroad.” And I am desperate
to know more.

I creep closer. It is dangerous,
but if I shorten the distance by a few more feet, I am certain I can gather
more information.

But suddenly, my worst fears are
realized. The door to Father’s study opens, and a man steps out. I find myself
standing in front of a stranger, dressed in an indecent way, wearing only a
thin nightgown with the robe I have not had the good sense to tie. And I can
only imagine what I expose to a gentleman I have never seen before in my life.

But he only looks at me and smiles.

“What have we here? A charming
spy?” he says in low tones.

The man is tall, very tall, with
blonde hair so light it is almost white, though I can only see a small bit of
the short haircut that is tucked beneath his hat. And though he is dressed in a
distinguished way, in a grey suit, he seems young, perhaps a few years older
than Marjorie. Though youthful in appearance, he carries himself with a certain
seriousness that makes him seem older at the same time.