by Morris, Tee
He nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see that. Like everything the Ministry does, it must be based on facts. Once I have delivery of the new equipment I should know more. It is a slow process.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses off them for a moment. He looked grey and tired.
Eliza plumped herself down on the stool he had near the workbench. “I’m sorry, Welly. I wasted so much time on Dottie. I just hope we can catch the perpetrator before any more women go missing.”
“It’s not your fault.” He took her hands in his. “Diamond Dottie is a nefarious underworld figure, and the kind of person that could well do such terrible things.”
Eliza let out a long sigh, and slumped a little. It wasn’t the first mistake she had made in an investigation, yet this one stung the most. These were her people, and she took it deeply personally that the Ministry had failed to find the perpetrator of such crimes. She’d been happy to jump to a conclusion.
Wellington’s thumb was rubbing the spot between her thumb and her forefinger gently as she considered these bitter facts. It was rather pleasant.
“Is it safe to come down?” Douglas’ head appeared around the doorjamb from the staircase. Eliza and Wellington jerked their hands apart.
“Certainly,” Eliza smoothed back a curl of her hair.
“Quite the cave you have here.” Douglas came over to them, but showed no curiosity, as Eliza had, to look beneath the oilskins. He put his hand on the back of Eliza’s neck.
“Thank you.” Wellington smiled. “It’s my sanctuary.”
“You should get out more,” the other man joked, and then seeing the Archivist’s brow furrow, he put both hands up and added hastily, “I mean no man should be shut away in the darkness like a mole all the time.”
“Wellington gets out.” Eliza found herself defending her co-worker. “With me.”
“Oh come now,” Douglas twirled a spanner on the workbench and chuckled. “That hardly counts, dear lady.” He stopped, spun around and pointed at the Archivist, his lips quirked in a slight sneer. “I know. You should come to the rugby game with us tomorrow morning. I take it you played at school at least?”
“At Harrow I was in the first Fifteen.”
“Excellent,” Douglas slapped him on the back. “Then you’ll play for Mother England, against our colonial team. It should be fun.”
Eliza watched with a confused expression on her face. She prided herself on knowing men, but she was unsure about this dance Wellington and Douglas were doing. Were they trying to be friends, or manoeuvering each other into place so they could stab each other in the kidneys? Part of her said that allowing them to meet on the rugby field was a very bad idea indeed, but another part said perhaps allowing them to let off some steam regarding their rivalry would not be a bad idea at all.
Wellington smiled slightly. “It has been a while since I played . . . but we are in the middle of a investigation I really—”
“Go on, Welly.” Eliza stood up. “Your eyes will go square looking at all those flickering images. Take a moment for yourself. Besides,” she pointed her fingers at both the men, “I could do with some entertainment myself.”
Chapter Seventeen
Where Wellington Books Takes Some Offence
Wellington set off from his home early Sunday morning, forgoing church and even tea at eleven. In his satchel he carried his rugby boots. Though it had been a very long time since he’d played, he was confident he would not let his English teammates down, nor embarrass himself in front of Eliza.
The teams were warming up on the field. The Englishmen were in a variety of clothing, while the New Zealanders were standing around in rather simple, black shirts. Over to one side was Eliza, her back towards the Archivist, talking to Douglas.
Heat rose in Wellington’s face. Here, on this cold field of battle, a primal urge to play for her attention rushed unexpectedly to him. He paused a moment to regain his composure.
“Wellington?” Eliza had come up on him unannounced—as she was wont to do. As if in deference to the menfolk around her, she’d dressed simply this morning: a dark blue walking dress with a boater whose spare decoration was a straight emerald green feather that pointed behind her like a horizontal exclamation point. The only jewellery she wore was a cameo with a unicorn engraved upon it. Usually Eliza liked to enlighten him on which raja or viscount had given her such trinkets—today, she did not. “Are you all right to do this?” Her brow furrowed.
Really, she was somehow more lovely without any adornment, Wellington mused.
“Welly?” Now she squeezed his arm.
“Pardon?” The Archivist jerked backwards.
“I said, are you sure you should do this?”
He straightened up to his full height. Sometimes it felt as though she doubted his masculinity. Well, today he would change all that.
“Indeed I am.” He stalked over to the bench where a few chaps were chatting. After inserting himself amongst them, and thinking he had shaken her off, Wellington began changing his shoes.
He should have known better—Eliza did not give up that easily. She elbowed her way through the press of men and continued to berate him with her concerns. “It’s just that these aren’t any old rugby players—they’re the New Zealand team. Douglas went to school with several of them, and he might have meant well asking you, but I worry.”
Those were words Wellington could not recall ever having heard out of her mouth. It was so unusual that he paused lacing his boots and glanced up. He’d seen his colleague in firefights, confined at the whims of madmen, and throwing explosives left and right—yet never had he read as much concern in her eyes as he did now.
Surely, she didn’t think him that much of a coward.
“Stuff and nonsense,” he said, jerking the laces tight. “There is absolutely no reason for any such emotion.”
Before she could say any more, he got up, tucked his spectacles into his street shoes, and strode forward onto the pitch. He did now notice that the men about him were of a considerable size and musculature. How the jerseys could contain them was somewhat of a mystery. Wellington swallowed hard, but steeled himself. He was, after all, surrounded by Englishmen. It wasn’t as if he were going on the field alone.
Douglas, who was wearing a dark blue jersey, laughed and joked with his countrymen. Wellington found himself rather hastily introduced to his fellow players, who all seemed good solid chaps, but whose names all went past in a blur. A tall Yorkshireman, who had taken on the role of captain, sized up the Archivist with a practised eye. “How’s your speed, old man?”
Wellington glanced back at the sizeable New Zealanders. “Pretty up to snuff, I think you will find.”
“Then you’ll do fine as our outside centre.” And that easily it was decided.
However, there were some unusual formalities that the visitors had to get out of the way.
First the New Zealanders lined up in a row. When they began chanting in Maori and slapping first their thighs and then their chests, for a moment he was not sure what delusion he had fallen into. And then he remembered reading about something called the haka. A war dance he recalled—one that he’d read about while perusing a tome on native customs. Several of the New Zealanders were Maori, but all of them set to the dance with a great deal of gusto.
Glancing from side to side, the Archivist noted that his interest was not the prevailing attitude of the English. It was mostly confusion with a confident few chuckling at the display. Wellington, however, considered something more ominous: if they were performing a savage dance, then they could most likely play savagely too. Such an energetic dance would fire the blood. Perhaps Eliza should do it before going into a gunfight. He grinned at the thought—and consequently missed the kickoff.
One thing he did notice was that Douglas Sheppard was playing in the position of wing. Usually such players were light fellows, meant for running the ball and scoring a try. Eliza’s paramour was anything but small, and though Welling
ton hated to admit it, he did not suffer for it. He was fast on his feet, and a terror to try and tackle.
Douglas’ so-called “friendly” game was far more brutal than Wellington expected. This he figured out when the first of the opposition backs took him down with a solid tackle from one side. The rest of the game proceeded in much the same light, and Wellington was very glad to make it to halftime with only a few bruises.
Tea was served by a gleaming clockwork mandroid, its collection of tiny wheels on a rotating track easily gliding it over the beaten field. Eliza was standing on the other side of the pitch, talking with her countrymen, but her attention turned to him and her expression went from jovial to concerned. As she made her way over to him, he tilted his chin upwards. “Lovely day for rugby, Miss Braun,” he said, forestalling her as best he could. “Partaking in the manly arts truly makes one feel alive.”
His colleague’s gaze trailed from muddy boots, along soiled shorts, and beaten jersey, to his face. Wellington wiped at it self-consciously, but there was no getting away from the fact that he’d taken his fair share of tumbles into the wintery puddles.
Eliza’s lips pressed together. “You’ve proved your point, you know. You’re as tough as any man here, and they all know it. Even Douglas is talking about you.” She pointed back in the general direction of the other team. “They’re impressed, so now you can graciously bow out of this, and tomorrow—provided you can walk—we can head back to the Archives and do what we need to.”
“On this point I shall not be moved. I started this game, and by Jove I shall finish it.” Right on cue, the referee blew his whistle and the game was back on. Placing his cup back on the top of the mandroid, he got up and walked back to his position without a second glance at Eliza.
The second half was even more painful. Wellington ran the ball several times, and the English even got a try thanks to his efforts, however the New Zealanders scored three times. Douglas scored two of them. Their offensive line was brutally efficient and nothing seemed to stop them.
Eliza was standing among the crowd at the halfway line, and her glare seemed to be aimed squarely in Wellington’s direction. It was most insulting, and the little knot of anger in the Archivist’s stomach began to grow. It was, after all, not his fault that he was here. Douglas Sheppard had asked him, taunted him really, and he’d responded in kind.
All of this Wellington simmered over, while running back and forward on the pitch, chasing, tackling, and endangering himself. His anger seemed to reach real steam when the ball found itself in his hands. The feel of leather, the winter crispness in his nostrils, and the raw determination in his teammates’ eyes, snapped something inside the Archivist. Some mad, competitive demon grabbed hold of his primitive emotions, and he barrelled forward, rushing towards the goal.
Ahead, he saw Douglas running towards him, positioning himself for a legal side tackle. The proper thing to do would have been to increase pace, or with some fancy footwork elude his attack. None of these things mattered to Wellington, however—all he saw was a chance to knock Douglas down a peg or two. Literally.
Pushing off from his left foot, he lurched to the right, and into Douglas. Wellington’s shoulder collided with the New Zealander’s chest with a resounding thump. The impact shuddered through the Archivist’s body like he’d run into a brick wall. It was most satisfactory.
The New Zealander flew backwards and landed in the mud, the breath knocked out of him. Wellington paid him no heed, racing up the pitch to place the ball squarely between the goalposts. The Archivist put his hands on his knees and sucked in a good few chilly breaths.
When he glanced over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Douglas still on the ground, surrounded by his teammates. Everyone else, including Wellington’s own side had stopped in their places, and the air was full of the referee’s whistle. For a moment they stood there, frozen in to the spot, all the players steaming in the winter chill.
The cold voice from his past echoed in his head. Bloody good show. You’ve made me very proud.
Yes, indeed his father would have enjoyed this moment. Wellington felt a little twinge of pride that he’d managed to knock Douglas down like that. One of the English backs, who was standing nearby, shook his head. “What the hell was that, Books?”
The tone in his voice was embarrassed. Eliza was running onto the pitch, heading towards Douglas, but the look she shot her colleague was terrifying: it was the chill gaze of a stranger. The shock had worn off the New Zealander players, and they began shouting and pointing at the Archivist. Only the English players holding them back stopped them from explaining to Wellington how much they didn’t like his kind of play.
Suddenly Wellington didn’t feel proud. He had broken no rules, but that did not absolve him. The hit was intentional and hardly sportsmanlike. As Eliza bent over Douglas, he turned and strode off the field, collected his things and left. His father’s training had never left him, and by forgetting that, he had endangered a fellow gentleman. (Regardless if that gentleman was a cad.) Worse, he had acted terribly in front of Eliza when he had only meant to make a good impression.
Well, there was one thing he was still good for. He’d go back to where he was comfortable—back to his basement, back to the investigation to look for answers.
Chapter Eighteen
In Which Eliza D. Braun Must Confront Ghosts of New Zealand Past
“Wellington should not have bowled you over like that,” Eliza growled, while taking a bowl of steaming water from Alice.
“It’s part of the game.” Douglas shrugged, wincing as he did. “Just a bit of rough and tumble.”
“It was most certainly not,” Eliza glared at him. “It was absolutely shameful.”
“Maybe so, but I am fine.”
She knew full well that he was not, and Eliza wondered exactly what she would find when she got his shirt off. Once there had been a day when she’d not been concerned about that—in fact it had been her main goal.
Alice snorted, breaking her recollections. “And who is looking after Mr. Books?” she snapped, dropping a stack of towels on Eliza’s parlour chair. “Do you think he has a pretty lady to care for his bruises?”
Sometimes her maid completely forgot the line between employer and employee. It was entirely her fault for never pointing it out. Neither could she now. “I don’t give a jot what Wellington is doing. He caused this whole thing, Alice.”
Her bow-shaped lips pressed together. “Yes, miss. I know he did—but still, after all he has done . . .” Her voice trailed off as her gaze wandered to the recently papered-over bullet holes.
Alice had the ability to cut anyone, even Eliza, down to size. Quite impressive considering her curly red hair and impish appearance.
Douglas looked from one woman to the other in pain but still dumfounded by this little exchange.
“Yes.” Eliza pursed her lips. “Wellington has done quite enough. Including breaking the rules of the game quite terribly.”
“He didn’t break the rules,” Douglas corrected. “He just directed his passions on me.”
“I am sure he had plenty of reasons.” Alice put her hands on her hips, before reluctantly adding, “Miss.”
Then when her employer shot her an aggravated look, she finally took the cue and stomped out of the room to the accompaniment of pistons hissing. Eliza noted that though her prosthetics always gave Alice a heavy step, this time they were even louder.
Douglas tilted his head and watched her. “It’s hard to imagine you with a maidservant, Eliza, but somehow that one seems to suit you.”
“You mean with her prosthetic legs?”
“No.” He grinned. “With her attitude.”
“Yes, well, Alice was not exactly born to service.” Eliza rummaged around in her cupboard until she found a large jar of the company-issue ointment. Unscrewing the lid she peered in. “Oh dear, I think I have only a little left.” She glanced up and gave him a somewhat sheepish smile. “I do tend to go th
rough rather a lot of it.”
“I can imagine.” Cautiously, Douglas felt his chest. “I’m no expert but I think I may have at least a bruised rib or two.”
“Well then,” Eliza swallowed, trying to find the next few words—but there really were no two ways about it. “Take off your shirt.”
Douglas was looking at her with those ridiculously bright blue eyes, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. She heard rather than saw him do as he was bidden. Miss Eliza D. Braun had seen her fair share of naked men’s chests; she had caused not a few of them to get that way. She could certainly not be considered a wallflower, and yet memory made this quite a different situation. Perhaps she should have let Alice and her relentless efficiency do this part.
Steadying her nerves, she dipped her fingertips into the mint-smelling cream and began to smear it on. She did not hurry.
“This reminds me of how we first met.” She could feel Douglas’ voice, low and entrancing, through her flesh and bone. “You were less gentle then.”
Eliza swallowed hard but could not avoid the recollection. She’d been only a mere slip of a thing working at her father’s pub. She’d been used to the cursing and the occasional intimate suggestion when her dad had his back turned. When a sailor fresh off a whaling ship offered to show her his harpoon, a tall stranger had leapt to her defence. The resulting brawl had been one of the more spectacular the pub had ever seen, and had required Eliza’s father, brothers, and naturally, herself to get involved. When she’d slid over the bar and leapt into the melee, she hadn’t really taken much notice of her defender.
It was only later, when she’d helped him get up off the floor, that she’d felt a flash of heat. Even nursing an amazing shiner, Douglas had been handsomer than any man she’d ever met. While her father wasn’t looking she’d poured him a beer, and fetched ice for his wounds.
Eliza flinched. “I didn’t know any better. I’ve amassed a lot of practice since then.” She leaned over and picked up the roll of bandages next to the jar of ointment, but Douglas stopped her hand.
