by Oisin McGann
Tatiana gave an exaggerated moan and flopped back on the bed.
“Tell me what I’ve missed while I’ve been away,” he prompted her. “How is your new governess?”
“She’s a cow.”
“She can’t be any worse than Mrs. McKeever. You said she was a kraken sent from the depths of the sea to torment you.”
“This new one’s much worse.”
“How can that be? Worse than the kraken? I don’t believe it,” Nate scoffed theatrically.
“Mrs. McKeever was ancient. She was bound to kick the bucket eventually. This new one can’t be more than thirty years old. She won’t die for years.”
“You must never give up hope, Tatty.”
“Can’t I have my present tonight?” she whined.
“No. Don’t be such a spoiled brat. Tomorrow morning.”
Tatty gave another frustrated moan and thumped the bed.
“Very ladylike,” Nate told her. “If you keep that up, I won’t show you the monster either.”
“What?” Tatiana sat bolt upright.
“Didn’t I mention that? Big brother caught a monster tonight.” Nate pretended to study his nails.
“Really? Like the ones in the zoo?” She clutched his sleeve.
“Better than those old things. I can ride this one. I’ve tamed it.”
She gaped.
“But you can’t see that until the morning either,” he said, getting to his feet. “Now you go to bed, and I’ll see you before breakfast. And don’t sit up late, reading—you’ll strain your eyes. Go straight to sleep.”
“Oh please. I’ll never sleep now! You’re so mean!”
“It’s for your own good,” he retorted as he opened the door, imitating their old nurse in one of her favorite phrases. “You’ll thank me in years to come.”
A pillow hit the door as he closed it behind him.
His room was on the next floor; he took the stairs up. His door was open, and Clancy was inside with Nate’s trunks and cases from the ship. The manservant already had most of the clothes put away. There was a nightshirt laid out on the bed, which had been freshly made.
Apart from the new clutter, Nate’s room was exactly as he had left it. It was still a boy’s room, really; full of sporting trophies, framed daguerreotypes and lithographs of wild engimals; shelves of adventure books and penny dreadfuls. That would all have to change.
Clancy was looking over some of the shoes Nate had bought in Capetown, obviously unimpressed with the stitching. As he noticed his master, he stood up straight and gave a stiff bow of the head.
“Welcome home, Master Nathaniel. You’re looking well. Africa seems to have suited you.”
There was pride in the older man’s eyes. Nate was different now, a grown man, mature for his eighteen years. His shoulders filled his jacket and his body was strong and agile; his hands had been roughened by work that did not befit a gentleman, his skin darkened by long days in the sun.
Nate had known Clancy all his life; this short, ugly man had served as his manservant and bodyguard for several years, and had been Marcus’s before that. Nate had done most of his martial training with him, including boxing and wrestling, fencing and shooting, as well as many of the other skills a young man needed in an increasingly complicated world. Clancy had been his mentor, his guide and his shadow as he grew into manhood, but Nate had left him behind when he had escaped his family to travel the world.
“Thank you, Clancy. It’s good to be back.”
He sat heavily in one of the armchairs, feeling all the aches and bruises of his night’s adventure. His tongue was slightly swollen, and the dull pain in his groin was still there.
“What would you like done with these, sir?” Clancy asked, pointing to a number of packages laid out on the floor.
“Just leave them.” Nate waved his hand dismissively. “Just leave everything. It’ll all wait till the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man sensed that his master was not finished with him and so he hovered for a minute by the door.
“Clancy,” Nate said at last, “if there is any word among the staff about … about my brother’s death, you’ll let me know, won’t you? If you hear anything at all.”
“Of course, sir,” Clancy replied. “Am I to take that to mean that you don’t believe Master Marcus’s death was an accident?”
With some of the predators in this family, Nate thought, you can’t take any chances.
“It’s just a feeling,” he said out loud. “There’s still too much I don’t know. And now there’s going to be the funeral too—it’s going to bring all the dregs out of the woodwork. This house is full of people who’d do anything to—” Nate stopped himself. Sometimes he forgot that Clancy was only a servant. This was no business of his. Another thought occurred to him. “What’s the word on the rebels?”
“The family is facing a great deal of unrest in the countryside,” Clancy began, the faint Limerick accent just detectable beneath his cultured tones. “After the Famine, and the failure of the last rebellion, people have grown ever more discontented with their lot. They are giving more sympathy to violent men. There is a new breed of rebel appearing, better organized this time, and there are rumors of funds and arms from America. But I’ve never believed that one should allow fear to dictate one’s actions, sir. I think most people would rather talk out their differences than resort to violence.”
“Not in this family,” Nate snorted. “And Marcus’s funeral is going to have everyone gathered together in one place—along with every important figure this side of the country. You’re telling me the rebels wouldn’t be tempted by that kind of target?”
“With the number of guns being carried at this funeral, sir,” Clancy replied, “I think the rebels will be the least of your problems. Would you like me to arm the booby traps on the way out, sir?”
“Yes, please.” Nate nodded.
All the key members of the family had their bedroom doors and windows booby-trapped. It didn’t pay to take chances. As he flopped back on the bed, Nate reflected on the fact that he had felt no need to take such precautions when he was away from home. After all, none of his relatives were in Africa at the time. He turned onto his side, intending to relax for a few minutes before undressing. But his exhaustion finally conquered him, and moments later he was drawn down into a deep but disturbed sleep.
IV
TEA AND TOAST
FRANCIE DID NOT go straight to bed when he reached the Wildenstern estate. One of his father’s friends had taken him on his drayhorse, riding at a canter to get him back before he was missed. He was running across the grass towards the stables when he saw the mysterious gentleman ride in on a monstrous velocycle. Francie ducked in under the stairs that led up to the grooms’ quarters and peered out at the courtyard. Old Hennessy had come out to greet the stranger and inspect the magnificent engimal.
He heard Hennessy call the man “Master Nathaniel” and he knew immediately who it was. The third son, the one who had disappeared off to Africa before Francie had started work at the stables. Nathaniel must have heard of his brother’s death and hurried home. Could he really have come back so quickly? Maybe on a beast such as this one. A mighty African berserker that could eat up distance.
Francie watched as they led the velocycle into the stables, and waited until Hennessy had filled the engimal’s water trough and gone back to where he lived in the cottage at the bottom of the gardens. With his heart pounding in his chest, Francie crept up to the door of the huge stables, lifted the latch and slipped inside. A single lantern burned near the door—Hennessy must not be finished here. He’d have to be quick.
There were a couple of other engimals in the stalls of this wing, along with most of the coach-horses, but he ignored them all. The deep rumble of the new machine’s engine could be heard throbbing at the far end. He tiptoed to the door of the stall and looked over. The thing was guzzling water, sucking it up through its vented nostrils.
“Lookit you, yeh beauty,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen nothin’ like yeh!”
Its flank was just within reach, and he reached out tentatively, stroking his fingertips along the smooth metal. The engimal flinched and twisted round to look at him, and Francie whipped back his hand for fear of losing it.
A sharp smack to the back of his head knocked all thoughts of the creature from his brain, and he turned round in time to catch another blow on the ear.
“Ow! Jaysus!” he cried.
“Jesus wuz born en a stable, son,” Hennessy growled at him. “So ah’ll have no blasphemin’ on sacred grind!”
“I was just lookin’!” Francie protested.
“You look wuth your eyes and not wuth your hands, yeh wee gastral,” Hennessy lambasted him, smacking him around the ear once more. “That’s the master’s beast and don’t you go touchin’ it again! An’ whut have yeh done to yer clothes? Git up thar nye and clean yerself up ’fore I take a crop to yer arse!”
The old man aimed one more blow for good measure, but Francie ducked and darted to the back door, flipping up the latch. He stole a last glance at the velocycle. The creature regarded him for a moment, and then turned its attention back to the water. Francie let himself out through the door and closed it behind him. Hurrying round the building, he climbed the stairs that led up to the loft. The stable boys slept at one end of the space, in narrow beds with lumpy straw-filled mattresses. This end was always damp, which was why the other, dry end was used for storing the straw and feed. The stables had been built for the benefit of the family’s horses; the boys who tended them had to fit in wherever they could.
Working his way across the creaking floorboards in the musty gloom, he kept one hand up ahead of him at head height. That way he would feel out the low roof beams before he hit his head off them. This was not the first time he’d had to make his way to his rickety-framed bed in complete darkness, so finding it was easy. The boys had to sleep two to a bed and his usual bedmate, Patrick, was fast asleep, dreamily mumbling to himself and licking his lips.
Wrinkling his nose at the rank smell of moldy feet, Francie shucked off his muddy clothes and climbed into bed, pulling some of the thin woolen blanket over himself. Patrick snorted and rolled after it, but didn’t wake up. Francie sighed as he tugged to get more of the blanket, but was glad of Patrick’s warmth. They were getting too big to be sharing a bed, and he could feel the wooden frame digging into his side. He lay awake, waiting for sleep to take him away. Below the floorboards, the bass engine sounds of the velocycle soothed his nerves.
He dreamed of owning his own engimal. Not even in his wildest imaginings would he have believed that he would ever have something like the creature downstairs; but maybe something small, like the lawncutter he had tried to catch, or one of the other machines he saw around the grounds of the estate.
Maybe when he was rich. His father was always telling him he could be rich if he tried hard enough. It didn’t seem to be working for his da, though, and he was always trying stuff. But then, they’d never had a really big plan before. And now they did.
Francie was proud of himself. He couldn’t make up plans; he didn’t know how to do things like his da. But he’d come up with the idea, and that was what they really needed. Da would look after all the planning. He’d already said they’d need Francie’s help. And he said that if they pulled this job off, Francie would be able to buy a whole stable-full of engimals all for himself. That’s how rich they were going to be.
He lay there, picturing all the creatures he’d collect, and tried not to listen to the scratching of the rats in the roof. Some day, he thought. Some day soon.
Nathaniel woke late and lay huddled in the warm blankets for some time, savoring the comfort of a real mattress after more than a year of ship bunks and camp-beds. He had woken during the night, undressed, and crawled under the covers. His whole body ached from the struggle with the velocycle. His tongue was painfully swollen.
In the drawer by his bed was a small purse of gold sovereigns. Lying back in the bed, he laid three of the coins under his nightshirt, down along the bare flesh of each leg, and three more on either side of his ribcage. His arms would be all right after some stretching. He slipped another of the gold coins under the hem of his underpants, gasping as the cold metal touched his skin. He took one more sovereign from the purse and put it in his mouth, sucking on it to ease the pain in his tongue.
Before long the pain was forgotten, replaced by the excitement of what he’d achieved. He had tamed a wild engimal. Not some would-be tool or piece of furniture, but a true beast. He couldn’t wait to go and see it in the daylight, but first he would have to traipse downstairs and greet the family. And the sooner he got that over and done with, the better.
When he was satisfied that the gold had suppressed the worst of the aching, he gathered the coins up and put them back in their purse. Reaching out for the cord that hung by the side of the bed, he rang the bell, and a minute later Clancy knocked and came in.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Morning. I suppose they’re all downstairs?” Nate asked.
“Actually, most of the family are out by the stables, sir,” the manservant replied as he took a shirt and trousers from one of the wardrobes. “Word has got round about your velocycle; it’s been up half the night, scaring the wits out of the horses.”
Nate grinned and threw the covers off, sitting up on the side of the bed.
“If you think they’re prattling now, Clancy, wait till they see it run!”
“I have no doubt its running will be the subject of prattle for days to come, sir. But I’d suggest some breakfast first. Your father is in his study with Master Roberto; he has asked to see you when they are done.”
Nathaniel’s face dropped. So it had already started. His life as he knew it was over.
“Would you like me to run a bath for you, sir?”
Nathaniel had already taken off his nightshirt and was standing, waiting for his trousers. He frowned.
“Is that a hint?”
“I’d venture to say, sir, that the velocycle wasn’t the only thing you brought down from the mountains.”
Nate smelled his armpits. “Yes, of course.” He grimaced. “Of course. What was I thinking …?”
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I’m fine!” he snapped, scowling.
Clancy had become far too comfortable in his position, but Nate never had the stomach to pull him up for it. Servants were not even supposed to speak in their master’s presence unless they were asked a question or were delivering a message. They were supposed to be invisible. But Clancy’s extra duties as tutor and bodyguard had made him more familiar than a typical footman. It was particularly irritating when the servant pointed out his master’s mistakes.
It was strange how quickly Nate found himself returning to his old habits now that he was home. He had done his own shaving while he was away, but after his bath he let his manservant scrape the stubble from his cheeks. And then he was assisted in dressing. As Clancy helped him into his shirt and started to do up the studs, Nate’s mind came back to his impending meeting with his father. He swallowed a lump in his throat and found that his palms were sweaty.
“Clancy …”
“I shall make sure that the toast is freshly made, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Nate swallowed nervously as he regarded his reflection in the full-length mirror. The freshly starched collar felt like a blade against his neck.
The dining room where the Wildensterns took breakfast faced east, its French windows looking out over the misted blue and purple hills to the cool grey of the sea beyond. The breakfast room was big and airy, warmed by a hearty coal fire in the huge marble fireplace. The five tables, with their crisp, white linen tablecloths, could comfortably seat six people each, but it was rare for the entire family who lived in the house—more than thirty in all—to eat breakfast together. There were only
two other people there when Nate came down: Tatiana and their sister-in-law—Roberto’s wife, Melancholy. Or “Daisy,” as she preferred to be known.
Nathaniel would never have suspected Roberto of harming Marcus. But he wasn’t so sure about Melancholy. He didn’t trust her at all.
Breakfast was over, and she and Tatiana were sitting together, discussing something over tea.
“Good morning, Tatiana,” he greeted his sister, and in a frostier tone he added, “And to you, Melancholy.”
Tatiana rolled her eyes and sighed. Nate insisted on calling Daisy by her formal name whenever he could get away with it, because he knew she hated it. He was not taken in by her innocent doe eyes or charmed by her delicate, dark-haired beauty. Nate knew a gold-digger when he saw one. And she didn’t like him any more than he liked her.
“Welcome home, Nathaniel,” Daisy said politely, her voice tinged with ice. “It’s good to have you back.”
I’m sure, Nate thought to himself.
“Is Berto down yet?” he inquired.
“He’s still with Father,” Tatiana told him. “When can I see the monster, Nate? Nobody will let me near it. I’m fourteen now, you know. I’m not a little girl any more.”
“After Father has finished with me,” Nate told her as he made for the sideboard. “Not until then. We need time to introduce you properly!”
Surveying the empty dishes on the sideboard, he was about to mutter a string of curses when a parlor maid came in with covered platters of eggs, bacon, crumpets and kippers. But it was the thick slabs of fresh toast that he’d really been waiting for. In a manor house, everybody served themselves at breakfast, and he took ample portions of the bacon and eggs from the heated silver serving dishes, as well as plenty of toast—done on one side only, as all civilized toast should be. Nate could face any morning as long as he could have his hot buttered toast.
Sitting down opposite Tatiana, he poured himself some tea from the pot and reached for the sugar.
