Galvanism and Ghouls

by Tilly Wallace

  “Hannah, I am pleased you suffered no harm, but less pleased you stole out without telling me where you were going.” Her mother tilted her face as Hannah leaned down to kiss her veiled cheek.

  Wycliff had barely spoken to her on the ride home the night before. He had taken the reins of her horse and led it from his as though she were a naughty child on a lead-rein. It looked as though the two of them were going to reprimand her for running off into the dark on a monster hunt. Hannah decided upon a pre-emptive strike.

  “Did Lord Wycliff tell you we found the monster last night? It is a marvellous discovery, for it proves it is not Papa. How soon will he be home, do you think?” Hannah glanced from the viscount to her mother as she dropped onto the sofa.

  “Hannah.” Lady Miles uttered her name as a sigh. “An encounter in the dark does not provide much in the way of evidence to free your father.”

  Hannah turned to Wycliff. This was his doing, surely. “You were there, my lord. You saw him. The monster cannot be my father and he must be released now.”

  He rested one hand on the mantel. “You are the only one who saw the creature up close, Miss Miles, and the soldiers did not find him. We have no proof to exonerate Sir Hugh, especially that which is provided by his daughter. Further, since there has not been a murder or a body discovered in the days since your father was imprisoned, some are taking that as proof he was responsible.”

  “No!” Hannah turned to her mother. “This isn’t fair, Mother. I saw him. He is a giant creature, sewn together like the woman Beth Warren. He meant no harm and even offered me a flower, but I couldn’t learn anything before the soldiers frightened him off.”

  If Wycliff had stayed away, Hannah might have succeeded in determining who had done that to the poor creature. At least it could speak, unlike Barnes. She might even have persuaded the monster to accompany her home. This impasse was all the viscount’s fault.

  She couldn’t comprehend that people took the lack of bodies popping up in the fields like gruesome mushrooms as proof her father was the madman. Hannah bit down on her crooked finger to hold back her tears. What would they do if her father were hanged? She swallowed the lump in her throat. They were not yet defeated. There must still be a way to prove him innocent.

  “What will we do, Mother?” she asked, her voice a raspy whisper as she sought to control her rioting emotions.

  “Miss Miles, I am well aware that I have contributed to this situation and that my actions have placed you and your mother in a perilous position. Honour demands I remedy that.” Lord Wycliff took a step away from the fireplace and stood with his back ramrod straight and his hands clasped at the small of his back. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw tight.

  Well, it was all his fault. He needed to stay inside the house while Hannah mounted a second search for the monster. Perhaps she should take something to show she meant no harm, just as he had tried to give her a flower. A toy soldier, perhaps? No, not a soldier. A wooden horse? Oh! Barnes. If she took the hand, it might show the monster that she meant no harm to such creations.

  “Hannah. Lord Wycliff has something important to say to you about our family situation.” Lady Miles reached out and took Hannah’s hand, pulling her mind away from Chelsea and back to the library.

  Hannah glanced at her mother, but nothing was revealed from under the thick veil. The churning in her stomach gave a warning shot as to what concerning their situation he wished to address. Hannah could only pray her instincts were wrong. “I assume, Lord Wycliff, that to remedy the situation, you pledge to prove my father innocent? How went your interviews with Reverend Jones and Lord Dunkeith?”

  He frowned, as though he had not expected her to throw that gauntlet at his feet. “Reverend Jones faints at the sight of blood, which is why he abandoned a medical career. Lord Dunkeith was not at home when I called. But that is not the matter I wish to discuss.”

  “Fainting at the sight of blood does not necessarily clear the reverend of involvement. A dead body has no circulatory system and therefore does not bleed.” Although congealed blood did smear over things. Did that trigger a fainting attack or did it have to be fresh, flowing blood? Perhaps they could set a trap for the reverend to determine his reactions.

  “Hannah, do try to pay attention,” Seraphina said. “Your father’s arrest has shone a light on the perilous nature of our existence. I have spoken with your father overnight and we are of one mind in this matter. Now, Lord Wycliff has something important to say.”

  All the thoughts in Hannah’s mind dropped at once, like a curtain descending at the end of a play. An idea more monstrous than what she had encountered in the dark the previous night climbed from the rubble. She stared at her mother and mouthed, “No.”

  Lord Wycliff coughed and cleared his throat, as though his words stuck in his craw. “You have been most passionate, Miss Miles, in your condemnation of inconstant men. I pledge to you that I am not such an individual. My loyalty, once given, will remain in place until I no longer walk this earth.”

  A chill flooded Hannah’s spine and raised gooseflesh along her arms. No matter how hard she rubbed, she couldn’t dispel the cold. “You will need to speak plainly, my lord, and not in riddles. I thought my mother called me here to reprimand me for gallivanting about in the dark, and you speak of loyalty. I do not see how the two matters are related.”

  Or rather, she had an inkling how they were related and didn’t want to venture any farther down that road. Her mind stuttered and froze and she cast around the room, desperate for a way to escape.

  He coughed again, as though the damp air of the night before had taken up residence in his lungs. “Regardless of what happens to your father, you and your mother will always have my protection and a roof over your heads, if you will agree to take my name and my hand in marriage.”

  “No,” Hannah whispered. One hand went to her breast to guard her heart, as she gripped her mother’s hand tightly. Realisation dripped through her being like melting ice from the tip of a frozen branch.

  “No,” she said again, this time to her mother. Hannah’s eyes were wide as she shook her head and mouthed, “No, no, no,” until it became a quiet moan torn from her throat.

  “Hannah, you know that should anything happen to your father, we will be alone in the world. There is also your condition, which would prohibit you from inheriting your father’s estate. Lord Wycliff offers us a way forward should the unthinkable happen.” Her mother tightened her grip on Hannah’s hand.

  The viscount’s forehead had furrowed at Hannah’s refusal. “Lady Miles apprised me of the impediment to your inheriting your father’s property. I make my offer to relieve you of that burden. I understand this also means there will be no heir for my estate and I accept that.”

  “No heir?” Hannah’s heart tore into tiny pieces and each one whooshed from her chest and lodged in her throat. Tears pricked behind her eyes. She tried to pierce the thick veil covering her mother’s face to see her eyes. “You told him? I am your only child. How could you? Why, how, could you betray me like this?”

  She swallowed back the cry building in her throat and let go of her mother’s hand to wipe the heels of her palms against her face. She wouldn’t cry in front of him, no matter how much she wanted to. Her heart fractured at her mother’s cruelty, and her veins crackled with the pain of betrayal as though she were a limb attached to Doctor Husom’s galvanism equipment.

  Lady Miles reached for her, but Hannah scuttled along the sofa cushions and out of reach. “I love you, Hannah. Never doubt the lengths to which your father and I will go to ensure you remain protected in this world. Did I betray your secret? Yes. Because I am aware that we teeter on a precipice that could collapse beneath us if your father is found guilty. I will not see you cast out in this world, existing on the charity of others, like the late Lady Albright. Viscount Wycliff is an honourable man who would stand beside you throughout all the years to come.”

  “You have all been discussing me a
nd my condition behind my back?” Hannah leapt to her feet. Once her sanctuary, now the library felt like a torture chamber. Had he laughed when he’d found out she was infected? She dared a glance at his chiselled face, but found his features unreadable.

  “I believe there is some urgency to marry before your condition…deteriorates,” Lord Wycliff intoned as though he delivered a sentence of death upon a prisoner.

  Hannah screwed up her eyes and forced back the tears. Her quiet existence had turned into a nightmare and she struggled to draw breath into her lungs. Her gasps turned into sobs that she couldn’t control. She pressed her hands to her stomach as the pain overwhelmed her in waves.

  Once, she had dreamed of marrying for love such as her dear friend Lizzie had found with her duke. When Hannah had dabbed the cursed face powder upon her skin, she never realised such a dream was cast forever beyond her reach. How cruel was Fate, to first snatch her life away and now, to condemn her to a cold marriage with a man who considered her kind an affront to his God.

  Hannah rose to her feet and screwed her eyes shut for a moment. She drew a deep, steadying breath and found a small portion of strength to cling to.

  Her mother rubbed her hands together and whispered over them, then held them open and blew. A fine mist formed into the ghostly image of Sir Hugh, pacing his small cell. He rubbed his hands over his face and his shoulders were slumped.

  “I am certain we will yet prove your father innocent of the charges against him, but this incident has reminded us of the fragility of our position. Should anything happen to him and when the spell over you fails, we will both be cast into the streets. Lord Wycliff has agreed to marry you and give this family much needed stability, while we continue to find a way to reverse this terrible curse.”

  Her parents were right, of course. The dead could not inherit or hold property. Once the Affliction permanently stopped Hannah’s heart, she would no longer be her father’s heir. The house and all their worldly possessions would belong to a distant cousin who had a dim view of mages and Unnatural creatures. He would not extend any charity to them.

  The world dissolved into mist as tears blurred Hannah’s vision. Her determination fled as her heart tore apart. Those she loved most in the world had turned on her. She cast one last look at her mother. “You betrayed me,” she sobbed, then ran for the door. Hannah’s feet pounded the floorboards as she hurtled through the house and out the back door.

  She let despair free and as it racked her body, she stumbled blindly into the welcoming embrace of the forest. Only among the dense foliage did she slow her pace. She held out her hands to shield her face from the scratch of branches. When she collided with a large elm, she slid down its rough bark to the base. Hannah drew her feet up and hugged her knees as she wept.

  Her mother had told him! How could she? Her Afflicted state was a family secret. With his gift, Timmy had uncovered it when he’d touched her hand, but the lad had kept it firmly to himself. The monthly rite her mother performed kept Hannah frozen in time and stopped her body from realising death would grab her with the next breath. Day and night, her parents laboured to find a cure to save their child, and the dozens of other people struck down by the French curse.

  “I will never marry him,” she wailed to the silent trees and ferns. “We will find a cure.” Once she was cured, there would be no impediment to her being her father’s heir and she would always look after her mother. The woman who had once been the greatest mage in England would never be thrown into the street or forced to live under a hedgerow. Hannah had no need of a husband, so long as they could turn back the hands of time and prevent her death.

  Blues and greens swirled in a pattern through her tearstained vision. Percy the peacock picked his way through the leaves and stopped before her. His ornate tail feathers fanned out over the ground. Hannah studied the pattern Nature had drawn upon him, tracing the circles and swirls to calm her mind and bring the tears under control.

  The iridescent feathers shimmered from bronze, to green, to blue as he moved. Why was the male bird so beautiful, while those in his harem were so plain?

  “Life is not fair. Why are you painted in such beautiful colours, while the little peahens are dipped in tones of brown? Did you ask God to tattoo you in such vibrant hues?” Hannah asked her silent companion.

  The word tattoo bounced around in her mind. Lizzie had whispered that Harden might get a tattoo to celebrate their wedding. Last night she had seen a tattoo on the stitched-together man. Someone else had a tattoo. Who was it?

  The modiste’s son! Hannah remembered the story the woman had told of her initial horror at finding out her son had drawn on his body a needle and spool of thread, the loop of thread forming a heart and the word Mère inside.

  Last night, the Chelsea monster had revealed a tattoo when it clutched at the gunshot wound and pulled the ragged shirt to one side. Hannah had thought it was a barrel and a rope, but what if it were a spool of thread?

  There was the chance it was a common tattoo. For all she knew, all sons of seamstresses might have such a design inked into their skin. But how many had French mothers? How many sons were gentle giants who had died in the last few weeks? It was too coincidental. Hannah needed to talk to the modiste and find out more about her son’s death. This could be the clue they needed.

  “I will prove Father innocent and we will find a cure for this horrible affliction. Then we can forget all about that terrible conversation,” she said to the peacock.

  Percy cocked his head and trilled, then flicked his tail upright and fanned. Dozens of magical eyes regarded her, and each one reflected her mother’s betrayal.

  23

  Hannah picked dry leaves from her skirts and considered her options. The woman within who longed for a love match wanted to hide in the forest forever. The child who desperately wanted to clear her father of heinous accusations forced her to stand. She gathered up the shattered pieces of her heart and locked them away inside, where they were safe.

  She wanted to mourn the loss of trust in her mother, to rage at a secret exposed, to sob that she was offered only a cold and practical arrangement. But Hannah was nothing if not pragmatic. Her father sat in prison with terrible charges levelled against him. She would have time to cry later, when he was safe at home. Then she could berate him for his collusion in revealing her Affliction to Wycliff.

  As much as it pained her to admit it, she needed help…and in particular the assistance of Viscount Wycliff. She took up a mental broom and swept every syllable and glance of the morning’s awful interview under the proverbial rug. She would not think about it until later. Now was not the time to indulge in tears—she had a murderer to unmask.

  With each step she took back to the house, Hannah buried her disappointment, wiped away her tears, and poured steel into her spine. Despite all this, her courage almost deserted her as her fist hovered over the viscount’s study door. It took three attempts before she could make herself rap on the dark wood.

  “Enter,” a deep voice commanded.

  She flung the door open and let the words burst free before she turned tail and ran back to the comforting embrace of the forest. “We are missing a vital clue. I need your help to question a modiste.”

  “A modiste? I require a little more information than that.” He laid down his quill and turned, but otherwise remained immobile.

  “The Chelsea monster had a tattoo on his chest. Here.” She tapped the space above her heart. “It is a spool of thread and a needle enclosing the word Mère. There is a French modiste whose son died a few weeks ago. He had such a tattoo.”

  The viscount leapt from his chair and grabbed the coat and hat on the rack by the door. “You can tell me more on the way.”

  Hannah was silent for a moment as she watched him tug on his coat. Just like that, he believed her, with no argument or bluster or, thankfully, a repeated offer of marriage.

  “I shall harness the horse myself while you fetch a coat.” Then he shooed h
er from his study.

  Hannah ran up the stairs, gathered the items of clothing she needed, and ran back down and out of the house. This time she ran toward the viscount, not away from him. In no time the two of them were in the gig and trotting along the road. Having a purpose helped her shake off the sorrow that wanted to chill the very marrow in her bones.

  On the way, Hannah elaborated on their mission. “My friend, Lady Elizabeth Loburn, has engaged a French seamstress to make her wedding gown and trousseau. Our conversation turned to tattoos—”

  The viscount nearly pulled the horse to a halt as he whipped around to stare at her. “You were talking about tattoos?”

  “Yes, my lord. Do you think polite ladies only talk of embroidery, music, and dinner menus?” For a man of the world, he seemed to have a very narrow understanding of women.

  He laughed out loud and urged the horse onward again. “We may not have been associated for long, Miss Miles, but I have come to realise that despite your demure manners, you are in fact quite a rebel and do not conform to what society expects. Please continue with your tale of tattoos.”

  Had that been a compliment? One didn’t have to scream and shout that one was not following the expected conventions. Many like herself went about quietly doing as they pleased. Marching to their own drum, as it were.

  “The modiste told us that she was horrified when her son had been tattooed to honour her. Then she began to cry, wishing she could see it once more. It transpired that he had a heart condition and died suddenly a few weeks ago. She described him as a lion of a man with the soul of a lamb. I believe he may be the Chelsea monster. If we can discover what happened to him, we may yet find the missing clue we need.”

  “Unless he too was buried, and his mortal body dug up by grave robbers and sold, unbeknownst to his grieving mother.” Lord Wycliff’s attention was on the road and the increasing number of horses and other carriages sharing it.

  She didn’t want to contemplate that option. Her day was miserable and she needed a tiny ray of sunshine within it.