by Emma Newman
The Agency insisted her instructions for the previous day’s delivery had specified that the items be brought with today’s batch. She knew what she’d instructed, and it wasn’t what they said, but they were never going to admit the error. She wondered if Bennet was petty enough to alter the date to spite her, seeing as her brief calculations at their first meeting had deprived the Agency of a sizeable amount of money. She suspected Margritte had been checking her accounts and dealings with the Agency too. Cathy knew it would be weighing on Georgiana’s mind, though she’d never admit it. If other billing queries had flooded in after his meeting with her, Bennet would know she’d broken a cardinal rule of Society: never talk about money.
Whether the Agency had deliberately tried to make her life difficult didn’t matter; she couldn’t summon the passion to care about it. It was nothing compared to the challenge imposed upon her by Lord Poppy.
Will had barely been present. The conversation they’d had the night before in her room was the lengthiest since her return from Exilium. As she’d drifted off to sleep, she imagined inviting Margritte on a museum trip and bringing in books from Mundanus bookshops without fear for the first time in her life. But the next day those desires seemed distant and felt like silly daydreams she’d once had.
Then she remembered the latest piece of magical paper sent to her via her uncle to open a Way to the Sorcerer. It was tucked in a book at the bottom of the one lockable box in her bedroom. Surely they would have tracked Bennet to somewhere useful by now? The Arbiter would be wondering why she hadn’t gone to them to collect the information on Rainer.
Cathy laid her hands on the table in front of her and looked at the wedding band. If Lord Iris could summon her, could he tell when she left the Nether? Did he know that she’d been in Mundanus yesterday, just for half an hour? There hadn’t been any repercussions, but perhaps he’d known she was only there to solve a domestic problem, and therefore permitted it. She was staring at it so intently the band started to blur. I can’t go to the Sorcerer, she thought. I can’t take the risk.
The sprite light was reflecting from the band so beautifully that the fear of Lord Iris started to melt away. She moved her hand off the desk and onto the blotter, fascinated by the difference in colour, that point of transition from flesh to paper. She stared at the texture of her skin, the point where it met the wedding band. Perhaps she could draw that.
A knock at the door made her straighten. “Come in.”
Morgan entered. “My apologies, but Dame Iris is here to see you.”
She jumped to her feet. “What?”
Morgan repeated himself, adding, “I took the liberty of showing her to the red drawing room. It’s one of the best presented and furthest away from the stairs the delivery men are using.”
“Oh. Thank you. Is my husband at home?”
“No, ma’am, I understand he is with his tailor.”
“Oh, God,” she whispered. Morgan had already learned to ignore her more inappropriate responses. “Well, I suppose I’d better get this over with. Do I look tidy?”
Morgan’s left eyebrow twitched. “I couldn’t possibly find fault with your appearance, ma’am.”
She followed him out, checking that the long sleeve and lace edging were tugged down sufficiently to cover the bandage, then she remembered she should be gloved and ran back to the study to fetch them. She had to stop herself staring at the way the light played off the sheen of the silk.
She’d met the Dame very briefly after Will’s mother had broken the news of the curse to her. The Dame was the most powerful woman in the Iris family and, being married to the Patroon, the last woman in the Worlds that Cathy wanted to have as a guest.
Morgan opened the door for her and she found the Dame inspecting the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Her elegant midnight-blue dress was cut in the late Victorian style, though with fewer bows and frills than the mundane Victorians favoured at that time. Cathy wished the trim was in a slightly darker shade. A petite woman, the Dame’s waist was tiny and the bustle only accentuated it. Cathy would have guessed her to be in her mid-twenties if she hadn’t known the Dame of the Iris line was rumoured to be over a hundred and fifty years old. All Cathy knew about her was that she was Sir Iris’s second wife and nobody talked openly about what had happened to the first. She’d be happier to paint that secret, if she could discover it.
Dame Iris didn’t turn at the sound of her entering and Cathy didn’t know what to do as she lurked near the door. Whilst she was mistress of the house she was still mindful of the Dame’s status.
The Dame adjusted the alignment of an ornament with a gloved fingertip. Cathy wondered who’d presented her with gloves on her wedding day. Was she bound by the same curse, or was a woman trusted by the time she’d risen to be the matriarch of the entire family?
She finally turned towards Cathy. She was a very attractive woman, beneath the haughty contempt. She had a delicate nose with a slight upturn at the end, all the better for giving the impression she disapproved of everything she saw. Her eyes were a dark blue, her hair a pleasant brown and artfully arranged.
“Well, don’t just stand there, girl!” she said in a voice pitched at the perfect level to make Cathy jolt as if she’d been rapped on the knuckles with a ruler. “Invite me to sit and offer me tea, for goodness’ sake!”
“W-would you care to take a seat, Dame Iris?”
“Why, thank you,” she said and planted herself firmly in the middle of the most comfortable sofa, not once having to adjust her dress or bustle as Cathy always did when wearing that style.
“And would you like tea?”
“Please.” The Dame smiled, as if starting from the beginning again.
Morgan gave a nod of acknowledgement and closed the door, leaving Cathy to sit opposite the Dame.
“Now, I had hoped to visit several days ago, but events conspired to make that impossible. Firstly, I would like to welcome you personally into the family. I’m certain you are delighted to be brought into one of the most respected families in Albion and the Frankish Empire.”
“Thank you, Dame Iris.”
“It’s my responsibility as Dame to ensure you settle into the family well and execute your duties with perfection. The Iris way accepts nothing less, and I expect your total devotion to learning our family traditions and becoming an expert on our history.”
Cathy took a sudden interest in the rug beneath the table. She was captivated by the way the variations in the direction of the pile affected the colours.
“Over the next three months,” Dame Iris continued, “I will spend time with you to undo any poor habits you may have carried over from your previous life, and ensure you’re behaving correctly. For the six months after that I’ll see less of you but expect regular visits and twice-weekly letters detailing your movements and achievements. For the last three months of your first year, I will permit you to socialise independently and write to me fortnightly.”
There was a pause. Cathy looked up from the rug and saw an expectancy on the Dame’s face that made her squirm. “Oh,” she said, not sure of what she was supposed to be saying.
“Oh! Is that how you thank a matriarch of my stature for devoting valuable time and effort to you?”
“Sorry, I mean thank you.”
“Evidently you need a firm hand to lift you to our standards.” The Dame paused, examining Cathy’s face and dress. “Quite why you were chosen over your younger sister I have no idea, but one must make the best of what is given.”
Anger flickered in Cathy’s chest, the first time in days. “Lord Poppy and Lord Iris seemed to believe I was preferable,” she replied. “Do we not have to accept their better judgement?”
The Dame’s eyes widened until there was white all around the blue irises. She opened her mouth, presumably to chasten her, when Morgan knocked lightly and opened the door to bring in the tea.
Cathy smiled at him; her mouth was paper-dry and her stomach needed to be settled. The p
ouring of the tea was enough to weaken the Dame’s frustrated reprimand until it was simply an irritated sniff as Morgan left.
“I can see there is a lot of work to be done, so we will begin straightaway,” Dame Iris said after a few sips of tea. “Firstly, please explain to me why you are dressed as you are.”
Cathy looked down at her clothing to remind herself of what she’d been buttoned into that morning. It was a simple green day dress with a black trim, one of the more comfortable as it was in the Edwardian style, and didn’t require a huge bustle. “I…” She tried to fathom what the Dame meant. “I like green?” she said. And she really did, more than she ever had before.
“Do you? Why respond with a question? Regardless of the colour, why are you dressed so inappropriately?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
The Dame tutted and set the cup and saucer down. “Really, child, you are astoundingly ignorant. Is that or is that not the same dress you breakfasted in this morning?”
“It is.”
“Then why in the Worlds did you think it was acceptable to come to me dressed so? What an insult!”
“I beg your pardon, Dame Iris, I had no idea you were planning to visit.” Had I known, I wouldn’t have wasted that potion, she thought.
The Dame sniffed. “That is irrelevant. After breakfast is over and the most pressing concerns regarding the staff have been addressed, you should be changed into your receiving gown.”
“My what?”
The Dame’s mouth drew into a tight pucker beneath her nose. “I find it difficult to believe that one of the most influential families of Aquae Sulis would live as savages. Back to basics it is then. A gown for breakfast, then a receiving gown, then in the afternoon, after 3pm, a tea gown should be worn and then the appropriate choice of gown for the evening event. And of course, should you choose to visit another household or promenade in St James’s Park, you will wear a suitable gown.”
“But that would waste hours!”
“Waste?” The Dame’s voice was getting shrill. “How on earth can it be considered a waste to ensure one is properly attired? Did your mother not change her gowns to suit her activities?”
Cathy tried to remember. “I’ve no idea,” she admitted.
The Dame was reduced to silence. She retrieved her tea and they both restored themselves. “What your mother chooses to wear is of no matter now,” the Dame said, calmer. “You will abide by my rules, and I will see to it personally that your wardrobe is filled appropriately. I assume your dressmaker will be seeing you this week?”
“Yes, Dame Iris. I’m seeing her quite regularly to ensure my evening gowns are the height of fashion.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. Have your butler note down the dressmaker’s appointment time for me before I leave. I will be here to ensure you order everything you need. Certainly nothing more in the Edwardian style, it’s so unbecoming. You need to wear something that draws the eye down, to your waist, not above your shoulders.”
Cathy slammed her cup down in the saucer as another burst of anger surfaced. “So I’ve been told in the past, Dame Iris.”
The Dame fixed her with a stare but said nothing until Cathy looked back at the rug. “Now, on to your daily activities. Show me your embroidery, please.”
“I don’t have any.” Cathy dreaded the response. “I don’t like sewing.”
“This won’t do at all,” the Dame said. “I require more tea.”
Cathy poured her another cup. “It’s not like I have time for it anyway,” she said. “What with redecorating the house and—”
“I’ve heard enough. Two mornings a week you will accompany me to tea at various houses in Londinium, and you will not speak unless asked a question. You will watch and listen and learn how to behave appropriately. One morning a week you will host a sewing circle, attended by young ladies of my choosing, and you will practise your craft.”
“My craft? But I—”
“Every Iris lady embroiders beautifully, and expresses her creativity, dedication and attention to detail in her work. There’s no better way to pass one’s time, aside from hosting dinner parties and soirées to further your husband’s opportunities in Society, but having met you I pray there have been none so far.”
Cathy’s mouth hung open for a moment. “Actually,” she managed to say, “we’ve already hosted one and it was a great success.”
“By whose standards?”
“My husband’s.” Cathy hoped that would silence her.
“My dear girl, your husband may be one of the new bright young things everyone is so hopeful about but I doubt he has enough experience to be an adequate judge.”
Cathy didn’t want to speak to this awful woman a moment longer. She had a sudden moment of clarity and saw herself perched on the edge of her seat, being insulted and verbally abused by this twisted relic of another time. The Dame was making her feel utterly worthless again when she thought the worst of that was over.
“You are forbidden to go into Mundanus, of course.”
“What!”
“How dare you raise your voice in my presence!” The Dame sharpened hers to its most imperious pitch. “Under no circumstances will I endorse frivolous trips into Mundanus. If you are too thick-headed to safeguard your youth then I must preserve it for you. You’re not a beauty, Catherine. Were you to lose your youth it would only make things more difficult for you.”
“That’s it.” Cathy stood up. “I don’t have to sit here and be spoken to like this in my own house! I’m doing perfectly fine already, thank you. The Tulipas like me and Will thinks I’m handling everything brilliantly.”
“Sit down and be quiet.” The Dame didn’t raise her voice, but Cathy sat back down again as if someone had pushed her. “Lord Iris warned me to keep a close eye on you and now I see why.”
Cathy felt like she was being pressed down and her jaw muscles strained as she tried to speak. Dame Iris had used a Charm, one so powerful she didn’t even see or hear her use it. Fear crept in at the edge of her anger.
“Yes.” The Dame stood. “That’s better, show some respect. I speak with Lord Iris on a regular basis and I’m sure you don’t want me to report your appalling behaviour to him. I have little regard for what the Tulipas think of you, all I care about is the way it has inflated your pride and given you a false sense of accomplishment. When one is successful, Catherine, one cares not for what others think, but only whether they do as one wishes. And, by the way, there’s nothing less attractive than a woman who thinks she’s intelligent and inflicts her opinion on others.” She adjusted her gloves, looked Catherine up and down with contempt and went to the door. “The butler will see me out. I suggest you reflect upon our conversation at length and obtain embroidery silks and canvas post haste. I expect to see a marked improvement in your behaviour by tomorrow morning, otherwise I will have to resort to similarly uncouth measures. It does not do to be an inconvenience to the Dame of your family. Good day.”
Cathy remained seated as the Dame went into the hallway, had a brief conversation with Morgan and left. As the bang of the front door echoed through the house Cathy felt light again and was back up on her feet, jumping slightly now she was unimpeded.
Working her jaw again, she picked up the nearest thing to hand, the fine china cup in front of her, and threw it against the wall. “Bitch!”
Feeling better, she sat down again. She was going to pick up her tech to resume her studies and then see the Arbiter to get that file on Miss Rainer. Damn the risk.
There was a gentle clearing of a throat at the doorway. “I think I need more tea, Morgan,” she said. “And the most inappropriate cake you can find.”
Perhaps Lucy was right. Surely other women in the Iris family felt that the Dame’s expectations were absurd? The thought was uncomfortable; if that were true, the argument for staying to fight was strengthened. She remembered her father’s anger at having been denied the opportunity to be brave in the
First World War and wondered if she’d have felt the same in his position.
She didn’t have to make the decision straight away; she still didn’t have the means to escape and stay hidden. In the meantime the file on Miss Rainer could be useful. What if she’d taught other students before her? Perhaps there would be some clue or previous assignments listed so she could identify others who’d be likely to feel the same way. Surely that’s what Miss Rainer would have wanted?
18
Will stretched out in the carriage and thought ahead to the meeting he was about to have with Bartholomew. There was no doubt Tulipa had invited him over to talk about the letter from the Marquis, the one that had made Will’s stomach sink. Two weeks was far too little time to make stable alliances with the various groups in Londinium, but Lord Iris would only care about the result, not the odds stacked against him. He feared it would come down to frenetic bribery and the vagaries of luck.
He needed to learn more about the Court than names and properties. No one wanted to organise a grand event so close to the fall of the Rosas, fearful it would be seen as bad taste, but it was what he needed to do; true power structures and patterns of alliances could be gleaned from just one evening at a ball. Could he depend on Catherine to support him well, though? She was hopeless at the larger events in Aquae Sulis and the last thing he wanted was for her to jeopardise his chances when he’d been making such progress with her. He smirked at himself. Yes, well done, he thought. Now you’re actually able to converse with your wife. What an achievement.
He’d never known anyone so changeable and so confusing. Cathy could evidently hold her own in a conversation at a dinner or an intimate soirée and had managed to win over the Tulipas, yet the very simplest of social situations seemed to fox her. She seemed incapable of seeing that she was making progress too. Every time he tried to point out a success she shot him down as if she refused to believe she could ever achieve anything on her own merit. No doubt her father’s violence was a factor in her lack of confidence but how had a family as respected and successful as the Aquae Sulis Rhoeas-Papavers created such a strange daughter?
