by Selah March
“Does that harridan of a housekeeper serve double duty as a lady’s maid, or must you shift for yourself?”
Elspeth turned, finally, and found him standing only a few feet away, looking winded and more than slightly pained by the exertion of traversing the width of the room.
“Mrs. MacGillvrey is a godsend, and I’ll not hear a word against her.”
“Oh, undoubtedly. Come now, spin ’round and let me at ’em. I assure you my fingers are very nimble.”
She blushed to the roots of her hair, but did as he commanded.
After all, I shan’t ever see him again. And if he goes back to London and tells tales of my loose and unladylike behavior, what of it? I shan’t see London again, either.
She felt the tug of each button as it slipped through its hole, and shivered.
“You know,” he whispered, his breath warm on the exposed skin of her upper back, “if I were a whole man, the world is not all I would bend to my will.”
Elspeth stepped over the threshold and into the corridor, out of reach of his hands.
“And if I were a frightened governess in a translucent nightdress, I might tremble at the thought.” Her words echoed in the pitch-blackness. “But we are neither of those things, are we?”
She left him behind and stumbled into the more familiar embrace of darkness.
Chapter Six
Dear Miss Shaw,
I write this letter at the request of his lordship, who is far too ill to accomplish the task himself. He has asked me to inform you that further analysis of the substance he retrieved from your father’s laboratory has yielded few results. Nevertheless, the surgery to install what his lordship refers to as a “pace-keeper” in his chest cavity is scheduled for Thursday next.
Miss Shaw, please believe me when I tell you that I share your extreme misgivings regarding this course of action, but I do believe his lordship will expire without its intervention. I fear he will expire despite it, and perhaps as a direct result of it, as well.
In short, his lordship is well aware he may not live out the week, and wishes me to pass along his fond regards, as well as his deepest appreciation for your kindness and concern.
Sincerely,
Thomas Colgrave, M.D.
13 October 1899
19 October 1899
Elspeth crumpled the letter in her fist and threw it at the library wall. Then she rose from the chair behind her father’s desk, retrieved the wadded ball of paper, smoothed it on the blotter and read it again. After which she tore the thing to bits, tossed it like confetti onto the cold, empty hearth and went in search of her housekeeper.
“Mrs. MacGillvrey, we’ll need a fire in the library.”
“Yes, miss.”
“And I see someone has covered the clock again. I thought I was clear on that point.”
“Yes, miss, but Agnes won’t go near the room with it glarin’ at her like that. Says it looks like it wants to gobble her up whole.” The housekeeper brushed past Elspeth on her way from the sink to the pantry. “And I can’t say I blame her, not likin’ the looks of the thing meself.”
“Nonsense. It’s a clock, Mrs. MacGillvrey—a common household item with an uncommonly ugly face. There has never been any indication whatsoever that it possesses the ability to harm any person.”
“If you say so, miss.”
Elspeth paused on her way out of the kitchen. “Whatever became of that tabby cat? I haven’t seen it lurking in nearly a fortnight.”
“It was looking poorly last time I saw it, miss. It likely went off somewhere to die.”
Elspeth’s feet felt weighted with lead as she made the trek back to the library.
“The surgery is scheduled for Thursday next.”
She glanced at Colgrave’s letter, dated 13 October, and made a quick calculation.
Today. The surgery is today.
Aurelius Shaw had been a nonbeliever of the highest order, shunning all manner of religious observance. As a result, Elspeth had never seen the inside of a church. And so it was purely on instinct that she bowed her head and offered up a fervent prayer for the soul of his lordship, the earl of Falmouth.
When she finished, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. The clock on the mantel grinned down on her in malicious glee, and she knew her efforts had been in vain.
* * *
When the surgeon attached the leads connecting the pace-keeper to James’ heart, James returned to consciousness with a jolt.
He found himself surrounded by the cloying scent of ether matched in its unpleasantness only by the sickly, greenish glow of the surgery’s walls. He promptly closed his eyes again.
What a vile color. Where have I seen its like before?
Through the haze produced by the anesthetic, the pain of the incision was inconsequential—a minor bite from a small dog. More alarming was the way his pulse had slowed and at the same time strengthened, as if his blood had thickened in his veins and his augmented heart must toil that much harder to circulate it through his body.
The surgeons continued their work. They spoke little, and only in whispers, and never to James.
Can’t the fools see I’m awake?
But his eyes were closed, after all, and when he tried to move…
Damn.
Now a second odor assaulted him. Sulfur, sharp enough to override the sweetness of the ether, and with it…was that a voice? Deeper than the surgeons’, it sounded as if it originated at the bottom of a vat of treacle.
“Embrace the unholy dark,” it burbled. “The profane other, the fallen and corrupted.”
No, not a vat of treacle…a lava flow in the bowels of hell. Or just the bowels of my own drugged mind?
“You have called out to us, and we have answered. Take, eat and be made whole.”
Instinctively, James flinched away from the blasphemous twisting of the familiar communion prayer. He tried to open his eyes and could not.
Dreaming. That’s it—just a dream. Colgrave said the ether might cause unusual fancies. No need for alarm.
The voice continued, growing more persuasive but never losing its congested, vaguely inhuman quality.
“Know us, be one with us. We ask so little in return—nothing but the worthless remnants of your humanity in exchange for life everlasting.”
Life everlasting? Now there’s a prize. What more could anyone desire but to evade death?
From another corner of his mind came the rustling of petticoats. For a moment, Elspeth Shaw’s remembered question filled James’ head.
“But are there not worse things than death, my lord?”
He could not reply. The other voice had fallen silent, and even the surgeons’ whispering faded. He understood the moment had come to make his choice—to die with his humanity intact, or to live on forever.
“…pulse is far too slow…”
“…losing him…”
A wrenching pain tore through the center of James’ chest. With a heroic effort, he opened his eyes. He peered into the center of the sickly glow and finally recognized the particular shade of green—like olives left to ripen too long in the sun. A breath passed over him, and with it came again the stench of sulfur. James tried to speak.
“Give…me…life.”
He felt his lips move, but heard no sound. The room spun around him, and the men clustered about the table seemed to grow farther away with each revolution. Only the glow of the green glass vial remained, enveloping him even as he welcomed it into his body, into his mind, into his soul.
Then, only darkness.
* * *
Dear Miss Shaw,
I write once more on behalf of his lordship, who wishes you to know that he has survived his ordeal and is—at the time of this communication and despite my grave misgivings—healing with remarkable speed.
Indeed, if you will forgive the hyperbole, I must relay that his lordship’s recovery is nothing short of preternatural. Yesterday evening, only seventy-two hours post-surgery,
he eschewed the broth I’d prescribed for his dinner and instead consumed an entire chicken, albeit slowly and with numerous pauses for rest. His chief complaint was that the bird was too well done for his tastes. For tonight’s meal, he has ordered beef and has commanded that it be served to him rare and without excessive seasoning. I take this as a sign of his imminent return to good health.
The next missive you receive from this household will undoubtedly spring from the pen of his lordship, and so I bid you adieu, my good lady, in hopes that my news has brought you the satisfaction of knowing you have assisted in saving the life of another.
Sincerely,
Thomas Colgrave, M.D.
22 October 1899
Chapter Seven
5 November 1899
“Shopping, my lord?” Colgrave asked, his voice coated in its usual veneer of skepticism. “Out amongst strangers on the crowded city streets, to be jostled and shoved and exposed to all manner of communicable diseases? Do you think it wise?”
James declined to answer for the moment, too busy enjoying the sunlight streaming through the drawing room windows. He stretched like a waking cat, reveling in the sensation of steadiness on his feet and the lack of a feeble, irregular pounding in his chest.
True, the trauma of nearly expiring on the operating table had taken its toll. He occasionally felt as if some other being shared this newly strong and vigorous body with him. He imagined this other being shifting inside him, brushing against his organs and rearranging his thoughts to suit its own. Even in sleep the sensation remained, as if someone were observing his dreams from inside his own head.
Perhaps I should take up writing penny dreadfuls for the masses. Might as well make a profit from such unregulated rubbish.
He left off contemplating the view and turned to face his physician. “No time like the present, my man! The weather may yet turn unfriendly, and then what will become of the parcels I wish sent to St. Kilda?”
“Ah,” replied the doctor, skepticism transformed to an equally irritating smugness before James’ very eyes. “If only virulent pestilence made allowances for the holiday spirit.”
“Perhaps it does, Colgrave,” James replied, covering his surge of annoyance with the widest grin he could muster. “Or perhaps the holiday spirit is proof against your nasty little bugs. Either way, I am off to the shops. Of course, if you don’t wish to accompany me—”
“No, no, let it not be said Thomas Colgrave lacks the proper sentiments. But I will insist you wear a woolen muffler, my lord, as well as a pair of gloves and sturdy boots.”
As they departed the drawing room, James idly wondered how Colgrave would look with a woolen muffler knotted inextricably ’round his blasted throat.
* * *
11 November 1899
The month had dawned cold but clear on St. Kilda. Elspeth gazed out from the library windows at the way the pure light painted the landscape in icy blues and grays. An airship had landed in the village that morning, but she’d felt no need to meet it. There would be no letter from James.
And that’s as it should be. I should be content to know he’s healthy and whole, and well away from me, who can only bring him harm.
“Miss Elspeth, there’s a man from the village at the kitchen door with a pair of parcels and a letter from London. He says the lot of ’em are addressed to you.”
Mrs. MacGillvrey sounded amazed at this unprecedented turn of events, and Elspeth didn’t blame her for it one whit. In the last two years of Aurelius Shaw’s life, Elspeth had received from him not so much as a note inquiring after her health. She possessed no other family or friends from whom she might receive correspondence, and she’d ordered no items from the mainland recently…though she’d considered and rejected as extravagantly wasteful the idea of purchasing a pair of mourning gowns in the latest style. Who would see her in them, after all?
“Have him bring in the parcels and set them on the desk, Mrs. MacGillvrey.”
“Very good, miss. I’ve the letter right here, if you’d care to read it now.”
Elspeth did not fail to notice the look of disapproval on the housekeeper’s face when her mistress practically skipped across the room to snatch the missive from her hand.
My dearest Elspeth,
I must apologize for not writing sooner. Suffice to say my return to glorious good health has ruined my manners and made a cad of me—a cad who is not beneath buying your forgiveness with shiny gifts purchased at the most popular shops in London.
You’ll find the music box to be especially entertaining, I hope. I suppose it’s a trifle scandalous, but the automated burlesque shows are all the rage now. Truly, it’s quite the spectacle—you can scarcely tell the mechanicals from the human performers.
As to the corset—yes, I know, it’s highly impertinent and altogether unacceptable to send an unmarried woman such a personal gift, but I could not help but notice how convenient is this article of clothing compared to your own, with its laces in front and offering independence from the formidable Mrs. MacGillvrey.
I do hope you’ll not be offended, but you’ll have the opportunity to tell me so to my face, as I arrive on St. Kilda on the twenty-first of November with the intention of staying through Christmas to the first of the year. We shall see the new century in together, my great, good friend!
Most affectionately,
James Henry Weston, Earl of Falmouth
5 November 1899
P.S. I suppose you’re wondering why I don’t bring the gifts with me and save the shipping expense, but I think you’ll find I’ve become quite the impatient fellow since last we met. Indeed, Colgrave insists I’ve grown positively villainous in my lack of self-restraint. I can only hope your placid demeanor will have a gentling effect on my newfound restlessness.
JHW
The strength ran from her legs like water. She sat down hard on the edge of a chair and reread James’ letter. The second perusal was no more enlightening than the first.
Perhaps it is an idiosyncrasy of the aristocracy to invite oneself to the home of an acquaintance for the holiday season?
In any event, she had only ten days to prepare. She looked up to find her housekeeper regarding her with suspicion.
“Mrs. MacGillvrey, what would you say if I suggested a lavish Christmas dinner with all the trimmings?”
“I say I’d like to know what ye mean by ‘lavish,’ miss.”
Elspeth laughed. “Well, first we must discover if the airship has already left the island. If it hasn’t, I would ask you to send a message to its captain and request a shipment of the following items…”
It was a long list, and grew longer as Elspeth contemplated the luxuries to which a man like his lordship must be accustomed. But not even Mrs. MacGillvrey’s longsuffering sighs could dampen her spirits.
When the housekeeper departed with her orders, Elspeth fell upon the parcels with all the anticipation of a child long denied a reward for good behavior. She discovered the gifts were all James’ letter had promised and more.
The music box, which played an unfamiliar waltz in a minor key, featured the tiny, bronze figure of a woman who danced in circles and removed layers of clothing—her hat, gloves, shawl, outer skirt, bodice, crinoline and bustle, all fashioned from bronze—till she paused in the middle of the song dressed in nothing but her undergarments. The figure then curtsied, and began to dress itself again in time to the music. It was a wonder of imagination and execution. Elspeth had never seen its like, though she could scarcely watch it without blushing.
The contents of the second parcel, however, gave her pause. Crafted from black silk, velvet and the sturdiest whalebone, the corset was clearly intended to be worn in a manner that revealed its fine detailing. But who wore their underthings in such a way? Had fashion truly changed so much in the past decade?
And what does James expect in return for such extravagant and unconventional gifts? More to the point—what am I willing to surrender?
She po
ndered this, trying desperately to ignore the other problem at the forefront of her mind, though she knew she’d lose that battle. For if Mrs. MacGillvrey was correct, and the tabby cat had gone off somewhere to die, then the effect of the demon Xaphan’s curse was still very much in evidence.
But perhaps James doesn’t really care for me. Perhaps this is just a show of gratitude for my assistance in saving his life.
A show of gratitude that included an extended visit over the holiday season? She knew better. Her only choice was to write and tell him not to come.
It was the correct thing to do, knowing what she did of the probable consequences. It was the generous thing to do. But Elspeth had made the error of falling in love, and now it was the one thing she could not bring herself to do.
I am weak. I am horribly, unforgivably weak and selfish. I am my father’s daughter.
She pressed her face into the fabric of the corset and, beneath the poisonous gaze of the clock on the mantel, cried tears of wretched self-loathing.
* * *
18 November 1899
From the window of his study, James watched the moon rise. He did not turn when his manservant entered. “Yes, Belkins?”
“The boy is here, m’lord.”
“By all means, show him in.”
Colgrave looked up from his copy of the London Times. “I don’t understand your sudden interest in this child. If you’re feeling some species of guilt for all your wealth and good fortune—”
“I’m not,” James said, his voice sharper than he’d intended. “But if one is to do a thing, one may as well do it correctly. Now that I’ve begun rescuing the little brat from the horrors of his existence, I intend to see it through.”
Belkins entered the drawing room with the boy in tow. “M’lord, this is Tobias. He prefers to be called Toby. He has no other name.”
The child in question looked substantially different from the last time James saw him. For one thing, he wore a pair of thick spectacles that distorted his brown eyes to the point of grotesquerie. For another, he was no longer dirty, nor dressed in rags, and he looked as if he might have gained a pound or two in the bargain.
