Transmuted

by Karina Cooper

  “My room, eh?”

  The guest room provided was much grander than what I expected. I was tired, too tired to note anything other than the nightclothes laid out for me.

  As I fell into bed, my head was full of the information Zhànzhàn had delivered.

  Immortality, was it? And all this nonsense of creatures. Tigers and birds and dragons and whatnot.

  I was certain it meant something, but I had not the knowledge of the Orientals to bolster what I had learned.

  When Ashmore woke upon the morrow, if he did so, I would pluck his brain for all he knew of the Chinese version of what this all entailed.

  To make of men beasts and then rise to power, that was dangerous enough. Why all of that complexity if the goal was immortality? What did Ma Lài require?

  I fell asleep quite soundly, and did not dream at all. So tired was I, so mired in exhaustion, that I did not wake until noon.

  One day back above the drift, caught in Society’s clutches, and I’d already fallen back into habit.

  When I awoke to find a maid in my room, drawing the curtains to warm sunshine streaming through wide windows, I felt a sudden wash of surreal confusion.

  For a moment, it was as though I’d never left such affluence behind.

  By the time she’d coaxed me up and into borrowed clothing that fit well enough for its sort, all made of crape without any accessory, I recalled that I was in an estate Piers had taken us to.

  “My escort,” I said suddenly, startling the maid. I caught her hand, the veil she held unattached. “Leave that off,” I said with distaste.“Is Mr. Ashmore awake?”

  “No, miss,” she replied. She set the veil down. “But Lord Compton was saying how sir is looking much better.”

  Relief filled me. I finished dressing hurriedly, rushing the young lady I did not recognize. When my stomach growled most voraciously, she giggled—lulled into complacence by my general lack of curtness, I supposed.

  “There is repast below,” she assured me, and I followed her dutifully through what I now realized was a large estate. The windows had been cleared to allow the sun to shine through, and the appointment was beyond elegant.

  By the time we approached what I assumed to be a vast dining hall, the first of my wariness turned into a fist within my stomach. I found myself unwittingly a guest in a vast estate, and of all the places where Lord Piers might feel at home, I could think of only one.

  Stepping over the threshold gave physical form to my fears.

  The table had been laid out with such fare as expected of a genteel morning, similar to what Mrs. Booth often made for us. Of course, the dining room was much larger, with sun allowed to stream within, and the utensils of marvelous delicacy and polish.

  Those who sat around the table were no less posh.

  The earl occupied one chair, but not the head, for that belonged to his father, Lord Benedict Kerrigan Compton, Marquess of Northampton. Wherever his lordship was, he did not grace the table with his presence.

  Piers had indicated as such some time ago. The death of his eldest made of the marquess an obsessive man focused too readily upon matters of Crown and Parliament.

  That his eyes were not among those lifted to my entry relieved me.

  Until I recognized the faces bearing the weight of foggy green eyes turned to me; an all too familiar wash of icy fear as the frigid scrutiny of Lady Almira Louise Compton, Marchioness Compton, raked over me from head to toe.

  I had always considered her my own personal gargoyle. Now, trapped within the confines of the estate I had only visited once in all of my life, all recourse for retreat was stripped from me.

  I would be forced to face the fear I’d hoped to leave behind.

  All before even a bit of tea to soften the bite.

  Piers rose, a bit of courtesy that his mother promptly stripped by allowing her teacup to clatter most distinctly against the saucer she held in her other hand. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked, elegant tones of formidable polish clipped to the very quick.

  The lady had always been lovely, statuesque of figure and with a wealth of golden hair that had faded with time. Unlike many matrons of an age, the years had conspired to turn the beauty of youth into the striking handsomeness of a woman matured.

  Both sons had inherited her pale green eyes, though for all their raising, neither could mimic the sheer ice the marchioness could channel through a level stare.

  Unlike myself, Lady Northampton was clad in the very perfection of mourning. Her attire was so beyond reproach that the well regarded handbooks detailing every aspect of Society’s expectation would have something to gain from the lady’s comportment.

  That I had foregone the requisite widow’s cap and attached veil was a thing that did not go unregistered. Her features, aristocratic in the extreme, hardened to utter distaste.

  If her cheeks, already pale by nature of the black she wore, seemed to go even whiter, I could not fault her. My fingers clenched into the folds of my skirts.

  Would it have truly cost me to sit still long enough to apply the widow’s cap?

  “Mother,” began Piers in placating tones, “I hoped—”

  Lady Northampton stood so quickly that her chair made the most unbecoming sound as it scraped across the floor. “I will not,” she said, so coolly that I flinched, “sit with common rabble at my table.”

  The earl stood as well, bracing both hands around his unfinished plate. “Mother, please.”

  She said nothing, favored me with no other glance or sign of my presence. She simply set her eating cloth beside her plate, its contents virtually untouched, and swept away with such dignity that I felt a marked awe at her departure.

  Awe, and no small amount of regret.

  “I apologize,” I said when the silence fallen in her wake grew too unwieldy.

  Piers sank back into his chair, a rudeness to which I would not take offense to. Such weariness filled his every line that my heart quite went out to him.

  This was, at least in part, my own doing.

  I claimed for myself a chair. “I did not realize we were in your family home,” I said quietly. “I am so sorry.”

  “No.” The word came on a sigh, resignation merged with a bit of wry humor. “Had I been less distracted by matters, I’d have warned you. This was my fault.”

  “You know that isn’t true.”

  He favored me with a smile, strained though it was. No sign of his recent bout of cups showed upon his features, which I took to be a good sign. Men who spent too long in the stews began to show dissolute symptoms about the face.

  I hoped this meant he had slimmed down on his vices. Perhaps Miss Turner had softened him somewhat.

  Or perhaps, I thought as he nodded to the aging butler who stepped inside, the responsibilities of his position had done much to settle him.

  Yet the grief that continued to pinch at his mouth when he thought none could see earned my sympathies.

  Once I had been furnished with my own plate—the portion carefully allotted as though this were a matter of course for the household—and the help had gone again, I gingerly broached the topic. “Your family. They are…”

  Lord Piers took my tendered offering with a rueful slant to his smile. “Not overly well. I suspect it will take a great deal more time.”

  “My condolences.”

  “And to you, dear sister.”

  I bent my attention upon my plate. There was not enough food upon it to satisfy me, but it would suffice for the time and place.

  “I brought you here,” Piers said after a time, “because it was closer than my Eaton Square home.”

  “Thank you for that,” I said. “Without your quick thinking, it would have been the worse.”

  “It rather nearly was.” He dabbed at his mouth with a cloth. “Was it of any use?”

  I considered this. During the pause in which I did so, I polished off the rest of my plate. My host’s smile deepened a touch. Finally, as I took my tea
in hand, mindful of the fragile porcelain, I said, “We learned that the Society collectors were furnished with a poison meant to cause sleep.”

  “So why, then, did they turn to the other?” he asked.

  “A fine question.” I tipped my head up, blinking at the wash of warm light streaming through the windows. Each pane was beveled, enhancing the light allotted.

  It was lovely here, I’d allow that much. Spacious and warm.

  I could readily imagine my late husband growing up here, learning his manners and, when he was allowed, tearing through the wide corridors with his younger brother in tow.

  Though such imaginings sent pangs through my heart, I did not buckle.

  Was this what it was to come to terms with one’s matters?

  “Lady Compton?”

  I blinked, quickly dispelling all such fancies, and turned a smile upon Piers. “I apologize, my lord.”

  “No need,” he demurred, flicking a hand. His cup was filled with coffee, which smelled both strong and hearty. He took it without cream, as Ashmore did, and seemed to enjoy the flavor.

  “I think,” I said, returning back to the topic, “that the Veil was there.”

  Piers choked on the black brew. He caught himself with a rasp, setting the cup down quickly lest it tilt.

  I half rose, but he lifted a hand to belie the need. “What?” he demanded, eyes sharp and wide over the cloth he held to his lips. “There? At the gala?”

  “Well, certainly not invited,” I replied quickly, hastening to dispel any such nonsense. No matter the nature of the Veil’s alliances, an invitation of an obviously foreign gentleman to a simple engagement ball would no doubt have made quite the rumor. “However, I believe that he was watching his employed associates. When Mr. Bennett appeared ready to share his knowledge, the Veil…” I hesitated.

  “Silenced him,” Piers interjected, though a touch husky thanks to the coffee he had taken in too recklessly.

  I nodded.

  “Damnation.”

  I nodded again.

  The earl frowned most earnestly. “Will the Veil move against us?”

  “I am not certain,” I allowed. “However, I intend to leave here soon. Rest assured, your family should remain safe. I only—”

  When I stopped, frowning in surprise at the direction my own thoughts had taken, the earl once more picked up his cup. He surveyed me over the delicate rim, eyebrows gathering into a knot so similar to that glower his late brother had perfected. “You only what?”

  Dare I?

  I thought of the marchioness’s slim shoulders, so rigid as to be brittle.

  I thought of the dedication scripted within my mother’s journal, gifted to me by the very lord I took my repast with. For my dearest Almira. Love, your Josephine.

  There had been love between our families once.

  I did not know what I hoped to gain, but at the very least, I did not feel right leaving things as they were. “I hope to speak with your mother,” I said quietly.

  Piers did not argue. Such was my lot in this world that I always seemed braced for argument from those men I associated with, yet he simply sipped from his coffee in silence and studied me most carefully.

  He had, I thought with a sudden rise of affection, matured.

  It made of him a handsome prospect. Whatever the future held for him, I hoped that he found comfort with Miss Turner for as long as she would love him.

  “She may not be willing,” he finally said, and I inclined my head in acknowledgement of the concern. “However, on clear days, she takes her tea in the garden. Perhaps she might be amenable to conversation as a proper hostess.”

  “Then,” I said, with the long-suffering sigh of one facing execution, “I shall remain until teatime. Afterwards, I will press my luck elsewhere.”

  “Cherry.”

  The use of my given name earned him a sharp frown, though out of inquiry rather than offense.

  Piers’sgaze, though infinitely warmer than his mother’s, revealed his disquiet. “Be kind.”

  “I will,” I promised, though I had not yet ascertained how.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  In all the chaos that followed in my wake, I had utterly forgotten Lady Rutledge. Truth be told, the stolen diamond had fallen quite through my fingers, and this I remembered rather abruptly when I was escorted to the patio overlooking a gorgeously manicured garden and found not one lady, but two.

  Of course, Lady Northampton could entertain readily while mourning. I, on the other, should not.

  I could not allow my guilt or my regret to force me into isolation. Matters were entirely too dire for it.

  I had chosen to wear the widow’s cap after all, though I continued to pin back the veil. It seemed a small concession, given my current circumstances.

  “Lady Compton,” boomed Lady Rutledge’s warmest welcome, and a veritable mountain of eggplant fabric turned in my direction. In deference to the house, I suspected, the lady had worn a somber shade. Various hues of purple were acceptable in such cases.

  The weather had warmed rather nicely, bathing the grounds in sunshine and promise of summer. So delightful was the temperature and clear sky above that we could forego heavier outerwear.

  That crape was not a breathable fabric immediately bathed me in a fine layer of sweat. Fortunately, the veil arranged upon my head allowed for some shade, similar to that afforded by Lady Rutledge’s enormous hat.

  The lady’s brim was furnished with what appeared to be various types of fruit, arranged in a sort of still and affixed by thatch. At the side, pinned up in fashionable accord, a large clock ticked.

  The lady, I remembered, enjoyed clocks. Such was the scope of her masquerade the year prior.

  Lady Northampton did not rise at all, but sat at the ornately worked garden table and did her level best to freeze me in my tracks with a silent stare.

  “Lady Northampton,” I said in determined courtesy. “Good afternoon, Lady Rutledge,” I added, equally respectfully, and allowed her to take my hands in show of companionship. “I am surprised to find you present.”

  If she read in my words a shred of pointed inquiry, not a single flicker of it showed as her fleshy cheeks rose in a wide smile. “Nonsense, my dear lady, nonsense. How could I avoid the lure of such rampant rumor as the disgraced Countess Compton returned to her dear mother-in-law’s home?”

  “Euphemia,” the marchioness said curtly, “enough.”

  “Oh, tosh,” the lady replied, gesturing me most comfortably to a chair at the small round table. “You are too uptight, Almira. Do take a breath now and again.”

  It took a great deal of effort to keep my mouth from falling open.

  When the marchioness made no effort to pour tea for me, a discourtesy delivered with stinging purpose, Lady Rutledge gaily poured instead.

  The china used for tea was different than that I’d seen at the breakfast table. What seemed to be scenes of bucolic harmony decorated the glazed porcelain, blue on white, and still edged with gilt. Too plain for my taste, but smooth in my fingers.

  I took the proffered saucer with great care.

  It was not until I raised the rim to my lips that I realized I did not suffer the usual pangs of self-consciousness I had often felt at such things.

  In truth, though I sat with two of the most vaunted ladies among the Peerage, my nerves remained calm.

  My focus sharp.

  If I were to spill tea on myself now, would I take note?

  I almost chuckled, but for the sheer inappropriateness of such a gesture in midst of so much tension. Quietly, I set the saucer down atop the decorative placement cloth before me.

  “Word has it,” Lady Rutledge said, her gaze fixed upon me, “that there is a gentleman guest within.”

  The marchioness did not so much as twitch, which led me to believe that her son had no doubt informed her—if the staff had not first.

  “Mr. Oliver Ashmore,” I replied dutifully. “My guardian during my youth, and now
a family friend.”

  “I see.” And I was rather sure she did. Lady Rutledge’s eyes were a rather unique shade of blue—similar in hue to the color of the blue sky as twilight set in. That they held mine so firmly seemed something of a message, though I could not decipher what. “He is ill?”

  “He is.”

  “A shame.”

  It did not escape me that the marchioness allowed this. Were she less a lady, she might have thrown him out simply by virtue of his association with me.

  “Have you met the gentleman, Almira?”

  Lady Rutledge’s innocuous question earned a sharp glare, and the very deliberate placing of the marchioness’s saucer atop the table. “I have no interest.”

  “Come now,” the lady replied, chuckling boldly. “Surely you must wonder as to the nature of a man pressing so bold a case to the court.”

  My ears colored at that. My gaze flicked to the marchioness, who made no secret of her anger on the subject as her stare clashed with mine. “The very nature of it is beyond the pale,” she said crisply. “I will brook no such—”

  I clasped my hands in my lap. “My lady, please, I meant no insult.”

  “Well, insult you have delivered,” snapped the marchioness, with more heat than I’d expected of such frozen a heart.

  For a breath, only silence reigned. Then, on a low laugh that by very nature of the lady’s massive girth was not quiet, Lady Rutledge mused, “Now, this is interesting.”

  I agreed most readily. While the lash of the marchioness’s social humors was sharp enough, I had never seen her truly angry. Or at the very least, pushed into such humor that something other than cool regard crack loose.

  The marchioness’s lips sealed into a thin, white line.

  I was not the only guest to note how fine a trembling assailed her hand, placed most delicately atop the table.

  “Oh, look,” Lady Rutledge boomed, her gaze fixed on something beyond the patio’s charming trellis. “Almira, your roses are blooming!” She stood, burbling some nonsense or another, and I would be daft indeed to fail to recognize the pretext for what it was.

  As the lady sailed off in a froth of purple and delighted mutterings, the marchioness and I regarded each other from within the fragile confines of the silence left behind.