A Cauldron of Secrets (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 2)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

  She leaned forward in her chair. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you? I'd guess you're here on behalf of that warmonger Napoleon, but you don't strike me as his type. Maybe one of the opposition, though it's hard to say who, they're an unorganized lot. Pardons."

  "I assure you, Madam, I'm here alone," I said, knowing that my denials would only confirm her suspicions further. For those who played these games, being recognized as one of the players was a bright honor, especially by one such as Martha Washington. If I denied everything, she would think my role an important one.

  She pulled the curtain back to look out the window at Philadelphia. The city glowed with the warm haze of gas lamps, a bronze nimbus hovering over its profile.

  "If William Bingham becomes president, he will push the country towards England," she said.

  "The desires of the Federalists are common knowledge," I said.

  "Though England wishes to crush Napoleon once and for all, the Federalists have a different enemy in mind," she said, glancing back to me for a reaction.

  "Who is that?" I asked, guessing the answer in my heart.

  Martha gave a tiny smile. "I thought you weren't interested?"

  "War is the concern of everyone," I said.

  She blinked. "Fairly spoken."

  The sounds of the party rose in volume, the excited clatter of distinguished guests growing louder. Martha sighed and, leaning heavily on the armrests, climbed to her feet. She had a slight wobble as she moved to the door.

  "I'd better get down there before George sends out a rescue mission to retrieve me," she said, smiling. "It was lovely meeting you, Yeka."

  "The honor was all mine, Madam Washington." I curtseyed again, inclining my head as I dipped.

  She stopped right in front of me, with her head tilted and her hand on the door handle. "Not going to ask me, are you?"

  "About what?"

  She laughed. "Oh, you're good. It's Russia. The Binghams and many others think that Russia is the greater threat. So if your friends want to do something about Napoleon, they're going to have to do it themselves."

  Martha winked and left the room.

  Russia. Hearing that word brought back a wave of emotions and memories. I could hear the cold crunch of snow in that word, feel the dark forests close around me. Russia was an ancient place with a history that few understood.

  I'd grown up in St. Petersburg, which made me less of a Russian than most. To Muscovites, we were practically European, which had been Peter's intent when he carved that city out of a swamp.

  Martha's words turned in my head. Morwen Hightower's identity became clearer in my mind. She was a French woman, an assassin for the opposition that wanted the English to take care of Napoleon for them. Her skills as a confectionary should have made it clear from the beginning. No one could make chocolates like the French.

  This me wonder if Anne Bingham was merely trying to protect her husband, who would become a powerful man if he took the presidency.

  In my head, I could see the gears align. The assassin would target William Bingham, not George Washington. This would shift the efforts of war back to Napoleon Bonaparte. Either way, it seemed that the United States would go to war again.

  None of this was my problem, except I seemed to be caught in their games. The duck egg was important because that strange man protected it with his life for some reason. Perhaps that was why Anne Bingham wanted it. To use him to guard her husband? This didn't make sense, since they had access to soldiers if they needed it.

  The threat to the Binghams had to be something that couldn't be solved with a rifle and a bayonet. Or even an airship, or they wouldn't be giving it away. Why would one of the wealthiest couples in the world need this horrible man to defend them?

  Because the threat wasn't ordinary.

  The chocolate I had didn't contain poison, I decided. It had to be something else.

  I thought back to what started it all—the cauldron, though I hated calling it that. Morwen Hightower hadn't batted an eye at it when she was in Ben's parlor.

  Others might say “she's a witch,” but I didn't believe in that sort of thing. I'd seen enough superstition in Russia, and only the Enlightenment had dragged my old country out of the darkness. Another reason I'd begrudgingly taken the director position at the Russian Academy of Science was that I’d wanted to shine a light into the ignorant darkness.

  There were always explanations, even if we didn't understand them. Morwen Hightower was not a witch. But that not-a-cauldron was important, just the same.

  With a thousand thoughts hanging on my brow, I marched down to the kitchens. The tables were filled with tiny cakes decorated in the country's colors, each one sitting on a lace pillow. I could taste the sweet icing in the air. Not one servant made eye contact, so I touched one lanky fellow on the shoulder and asked for the head of the household, and he pointed me to a short dumpy man with a cribbage face, who shouted orders the moment he stepped into the room.

  "Sir, if you please, may I speak with you for a moment?" I said.

  He gave me a cross look, but after a quick appraisal of my station, nodded. "Be quick about it, I have desserts to arrange."

  "Lovely," I said. "I heard a certain confectioner would be supplying treats for the party, but I have not seen her work here."

  "Oh," he said, smiling, connecting the pocks on his face with wrinkles. "Marvelous Morwen's Confectionary and Sweet House. Not for this party, but for the launch of the Brave Eagle in two days. We ordered enough treats to give out to everyone that attends."

  A cold shudder ran through me.

  "Yes, yes," I said quietly. "Where again is her shop?"

  "On York street, near the gas works." He bowed. "Madam, by your leave."

  I gave him a nod, and he turned back to his crew and began barking orders again.

  Leaving by the servant's exit, I made my way through the back of the estate, determined to get back to my carriage for my next appointment.

  I turned back, to give the house one more glance, and I saw Voltaire standing on the second floor, looking out a rectangular window, his bloodshot gaze goosing my steps to hurry. When I blinked, he was away from the window and my heart tripled its beat like prey before the hunter.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The steam carriage was three blocks away from the back of the Bingham Estate. My head start seemed sufficient enough until a cramp seized my right calf again. The pain brought tears to my eyes and I beat on my leg, willing it to move.

  I knew from the look Voltaire had given me from the upper window that he was coming for me. When the rock in my leg unclenched into a twitching mass of muscle, I resumed my hurried walk, afraid the cramp would return at any moment.

  When I turned the corner, I saw the powdered wig of Voltaire bouncing above the manicured bushes.

  As I hobbled, I looked for a weapon. I'd left the cane and pistol in the carriage in case they searched me for weapons. The cane wasn't obviously a weapon, but it wasn't the right fashion for a lady of my station, or at least the station I was trying to project. Hell's blazes if I would make that same mistake again.

  I reached the steam carriage in a lather. As I opened the door, a feral growl erupted from behind. Voltaire was upon me, half in the carriage. His stench brought bile to my throat. His long fingernails clawed at my limbs.

  Kicking backwards like a mule sent him onto the cobblestones, his wig shifting over his eyes. He threw it away in a rage, leaving mostly white hair in a halo around his head, and prepared to leap. I pulled my legs into the carriage and slammed the door, engaging the bolt lock with the palm of my hand.

  Voltaire hit the door like a wild beast. I heard him muttering as he beat at it with his fists.

  I was safe from him for now, but trapped in the carriage. I wouldn't be able to start the steam engine with him outside.

  Voltaire launched himself onto the front, yanking on the pipes and brass parts that made the steam engine, pulling on them like an enraged ga
rdener battling with a tenacious weed. I feared he would disable my vehicle and slammed my hand on the dashboard in frustration.

  I must have caught one of the many buttons with my fist, because a sound enveloped the steam carriage like a banshee's wail. Voltaire reacted immediately, stiffening like a church pew, hands on his ears and screaming. He fell off the front of the carriage and stumbled away, crashing to his knees every few feet.

  Even from within the carriage, the keening noise made me want to vomit from the pressure it put on my temples. I could barely keep my eyes open.

  When Voltaire stumbled around the street corner, I pressed that same button again, relieved when the noise abated. Before Voltaire could return, I hopped out and began turning the levers to start my engine.

  The whole time I was getting the engine going, I felt like Voltaire was going to return and leap upon my defenseless back. I kept glancing over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't about to attack.

  Complete at my task, I slid into the carriage and waited for the steam chamber to develop enough pressure that I could move again. When I saw the white puffs finally sneak out of the brass pot, and the dial on the dashboard gave the correct reading, I pushed the throttle forward and steered onto the street, towards the southeastern part of town.

  By the time I reached Ram Cat Alley, I'd stopped shaking from my encounter with Voltaire. I sensed the Magdelen House would try me in other ways, so I sat with my head on the steerage for a few minutes before stepping onto the street.

  Once again, I left the cane in the carriage. Whatever danger Chloris presented, it wouldn't be resolved with that weapon. Instead, I grabbed my pocket watch, wound the mainspring, and tucked it into the hidden pocket on my dress.

  The lively scene from the previous visit was absent upon my entrance. Unattended ladies sat in clusters, chatting and sipping from porcelain teacups. With the Binghams’ party in full swing on the other side of town, the Magdelen House was practically empty, which said much of the inclinations of the Federalists.

  "Lady Dashkova," said Madam Maria. "We've been expecting you."

  A surge of adrenaline sharpened my senses.

  "What? And how did you know my name?" I asked.

  Maria gave me a hawkish smile. "Chloris told me you'd visit this evening. She's waiting for you."

  "I'm afraid I don't have payment this time," I said.

  "No bother. Chloris tells me this venture will be good business for the Magdelen House. That's good enough for me."

  I had the sudden urge that I should leave.

  Madam Maria glanced around the room, frowning. "Now where has that boy gotten to?" She snapped her fingers at one of the ladies of the evening nearby. It was the one with the glass prosthetic arm.

  Brassy approached, touching the corner of my elbow with her fingertips. Her high skirt showed a scandalous amount of upper thigh.

  "Lady Dashkova," she said, giving a sassy curtsey that put a smile on my lips.

  "I'd prefer not to be called by that name. Katerina will do," I said.

  "Katerina," purred Brassy. "I'll take you to Chloris now."

  Madam Maria snapped her fingers at Brassy. "Straight to Chloris. No distractions."

  Brassy knocked the dark curls from her face with her glass arm. "But I'm good at distractions," she said in a high voice.

  Then she entwined her fingers with mine, pulling me towards the stairs. Her touch was warm and soft, and by the time we reached the second floor, I was blushing.

  "Not checking me for weapons?" I asked, clearing my throat.

  "Chloris said you wouldn't have one this time."

  The phrase this time snapped me awake. They'd known about the cane, but had let me take it up to the room.

  "What does Chloris do?" I asked. "For the menfolk, that is."

  Brassy smiled sweetly at me, her blue eyes twinkling. "I haven't the foggiest. I just know that everything turned around when Chloris came to work for Madam Maria. Before she came, the Magdelen House was about to go out of business."

  When we reached the door, Brassy stretched up and kissed me on the cheek, but I was too focused on the encounter ahead to be affected by it.

  "Thank you, Brassy," I said, squeezing her hand.

  "Come see me after your hour is up," she said over her shoulder, sauntering back towards the stairs. "Free of charge."

  I replied with a smile and turned my attention back to the door.

  The pocket watch fit comfortably in my hand, and I opened the round cover, reading the etching inside before my gaze fell upon the hands of time.

  Time ever be our enemy.

  My friend Katherine Wilmot from Ireland gave me this watch. I sensed her words to be semi-prophetic.

  The hands on the clock were at 11:03.

  I stepped into the room, feeling cool air upon my face. It was at least ten degrees cooler in the room. I suspected the body of water kept it that way.

  A splash alerted me to Chloris. She seemed the type that could move silently through the water, so I assumed that she was letting me know she was there.

  "Lady Chloris," I said, my voice echoing across the water and collecting in the dark corners.

  A woman's shape stood in the water, not far from me. It seemed like she'd appeared there.

  I glanced at the watch.

  11:09.

  Blazes.

  I didn't know how she was doing it: hypnotizing me, or something else entirely.

  Rather than look at Chloris, I kept my gaze firmly on the timepiece, watching the seconds tick away.

  "Don't you trust me, Princess Dashkova?" she asked, and I wanted desperately to look upon her.

  "Trust is a strong word for acquaintances," I said.

  "We could be more than acquaintances. The boys love the attention I give them. They can't get enough," she said.

  11:10.

  When the hand ticked to the new minute, I dared a glance.

  As before, Chloris was naked, her body glistening in the strange light of the room. Her hair fell like strong kelp against her shoulders.

  11:24.

  I shook my head and refocused on the timepiece. As I stared at it, I had the impression we'd been talking, but I couldn't remember what'd been said.

  "How do you do that?" I asked.

  "Do what?" she asked.

  "It doesn't matter," I said. "That's not what I came for."

  "No, it's not."

  It was damned hard keeping my gaze on the watch. It felt like an insect had landed on my face and I wasn't allowed to swat it off, or even twitch.

  11:26.

  "Last time I came," I began, feeling Chloris' eyes on me. "You gave me information."

  "Were you not satisfied with it?"

  "On the contrary, more than satisfied, but I asked about Morwen's husband, a person who doesn't exist, and you sent me to the home of the thief. The description was the same, but the intentions of finding the person were different."

  "You want to know why," she said, laughing. Her voice was like water dripping onto crystalline bells.

  11:29.

  I kept my head down, realizing she wasn't going to answer.

  "Can you tell me how you knew about Morwen?" I asked.

  "Secrets are better if no one knows them," she replied. "But if you want to know something, you have to pay the price."

  It was only a reaction to her impertinence, the royal itch to scold with the eyes, but I looked up.

  11:41.

  To reduce the temptation to look, I put the open timepiece up to my face, so close I could hear the ticking of the gears inside.

  "I want to know about Morwen," I asked. "Morwen Hightower."

  A terrible splash in the center of the pool made me think for a moment something had fallen in, but then I realized it was a reaction from Chloris.

  "No," she said in a hissing tone. "I'll tell you nothing about her, or her sisters. Ask a different question."

  The rage in Chloris' voice was a caged beast.


  "Sisters?" I asked.

  A second splash was the only answer I got.

  11:44.

  "Time's running out," she said. "Ask your question. It's the one you came to ask."

  I took a deep breath. "I want to know where to find the man who holds the duck egg."

  Chloris kicked deeper into the pool.

  11:45.

  "I already told you to beware of him. Are you that foolish?"

  Beware that which wears armor.

  I'd thought she'd meant the golden creature that rolled, as it had armor-like chitin, but then I remembered the tall man in my home had worn mail that had rattled like loose teeth.

  "It appears I am that foolish. I need to find him," I said.

  "Better you give up now than go after him," she said from the other side of the pool.

  "Your concern is appreciated," I said. "But it's my problem."

  "It's not concern," said Chloris. "You don't even know who he is."

  "Then who is he?"

  She laughed, and it was like a cold driving rain, almost ice, impaling itself into the water.

  "Pay the price and I'll tell you. Who he is and where you can find him."

  11:47.

  "What is your price?" I asked.

  "Your firstborn son."

  It was my turn to laugh. "What foolishness is this? My son is grown and a man in his own right. I cannot give him away to you to be married. He's already married."

  "I don't want to marry him," she said.

  "Then I don't know what you want," I said.

  I heard the smirk in her tone. "Only a visit from him. Promise me you'll introduce us."

  "But he's not even in the States. He lives in Russia and has never been one to desire travel, despite the years we spent on the road," I said.

  11:48.

  "Give me permission to meet your firstborn and I'll give you the answers to your questions."

  "Are you in your altitudes? Has Madam Maria poured the potato liquor into your water?" I asked, knowing she was not.

  "I won't hurt him." She smiled, holding a hand to her heart. "Truth in every word."

  "Then what do you want?"

  "I want to meet him. Talk, not much else," she said. "It is my business after all."