"Come now, her marriage wasn't so bad. Besides she sacrificed herself for an honorable purpose. She ended the war."
"Whatever."
Allegro piped in. "Why do you say that, Miss Diderot-Moore?"
Although she answered Allegro, all of her attention and ire remained on Glissando. "You told her the Seven Years' War would end if she married. She thought she would help her country, and she gladly did as you instructed. But you didn't have her best interest at heart because you paired her up with a husband who was cruel. All because of some cockamamie story that the marriage would help end what we now call the Seven Years' War. She gave up her freedom for nothing because the war lasted five more years after the wedding. Yet her sacrifice lasted nearly twenty-five years."
Glissando stood and leaned forward to give Nicola an earnest expression. "You can't say that, lass. The war could have lasted a hundred years if I hadn't interfered, and if your grandmother hadn't done what she did."
The fine hairs on the back of her neck tingled from indignation. "But neither can you claim the war wouldn't have ended in seven years no matter what Granddear did."
Allegro hadn't said anything for a while, and Nicola thought the pixie had abandoned their calling. But suddenly he perked up, lights flashing within the pastel colors of his wings, his chest puffed out with pride. "Ah, but we can. We take our orders from Maestro."
"Well, sorry, but that doesn't make me feel any better.
"But Maestro is the epitome of goodness. He is the king of kings, above all creatures and it's to Maestro that we must all answer to in the end."
"You can exalt him all you want. I don't approve of his tactics, especially since obviously it was Maestro who evidently led Glissando to do what he did to my grandmother."
"Glissando is… complicated. He isn't always honest. Not that he's necessarily bad," he rushed to clarify. "But I'm certain he completed his calling to the best of his ability."
"And you can call yourselves agents of Maestro?"
Allegro flew to land on the sconce that Glissando had deserted earlier. "Maestro works in mysterious ways, and even I don't always know His reasons."
"But I would wager you question Him sometimes."
The pixie blushed… again. "And you would win. Because I have. I do. But that doesn't mean I don't believe in Him."
Nicola glanced in the looking glass, straightened her hat as best she could, and then opened her reticule to dump the crumbled remains of her starfish inside. Then she gave the pixie a final bow of her head. "This has all been interesting, but I must be on my way. I bid you a nice journey back to your bank of clouds."
He soared from the sconce to flutter in front of her. "It's called Jubilant."
At her puzzled look, he clarified. "Our country. It's called Jubilant. I'm from the city of Overture."
"Oh, well, whatever. Safe travels."
"You cannot be rid of us so easily." Allegro's wings were a blur as he tracked her movements toward the door.
"I can and will. Now, go follow your friend. At least he knows when he has lost."
"What?" Allegro glanced around the ladies' chamber, only now realizing his accomplice was gone. "Blast that note-slider! Where did he go?"
"Back to… Jubilant, Overture, wherever." Nicola crossed her arms. "You might as well join him, because as of this moment, I am going to retire from this social gathering." She reached for the copper handle.
Glissando suddenly darted through the doorway, causing Nicola to stumble backward. He panted from his exertion, his thin cheeks glowing. "H-hold!"
With an audible sigh, Allegro positioned himself next to his partner. "What a relief you are back, Glissando. He focused on Nicola. "We haven't even gotten to the purpose of our mission and she is already planning to leave. But we can't let her go because she hasn't even met her spouse-to-be."
Nicola shook her head. "Don't try to stop me because I'm going home—now."
Frantically, Glissando waved his arms. His breath came in shallow gasps. "Aye… leave… quickly."
With a frown, Allegro stared at him. "Whose side are you on?"
Nicola gave Glissando a grim smile. "Ah, then we are agreed about this."
"Her side." Still gasping, Glissando lurched toward her nose, causing her to hesitate once more. "But… not home."
She gave him a questioning look.
"Save... cousin."
Her heart flopped at the thought of her beloved cousin and his shenanigans. "Save him?" she asked, holding out her hand to help the little Caller despite her feelings toward him. The tiny fellow was obviously struggling.
Glissando plopped down on her proffered palm, holding his chest, youthful-looking even through the lacy cravat. He took several deep breaths before glancing up at her with an earnest expression on his piquant face. "At this very moment your cousin, Ramsey Diderot, is headed for serious trouble."
Chapter 3
Nicola crept toward the darkened workhouse on the outskirts of town—a facility owned, ironically, by the very intimidating Earl of Falconwood—hoping against hope that she would arrive in time to stop Ramsey from doing something foolish. That was, if he really did drive the steam-powered vehicle to the workhouse. Or were the pixies leading her on a fool's mission? True, hers and Ramsey's motorized vehicle had been gone from the Campbell's residence, so he must have taken it—where, she didn't know. And where were the pesky pixies? The pair had disappeared shortly after she'd hailed a hackney.
Clever Ramsey had come up with the idea of building a steam car. Their old standardbred mare had died, and neither of them wanted to spend money on a roustabout manufactured by Peabody & Co. Neither did her father. So she and Ramsey used what they could find in dumps, bought parts for items they couldn't find, and built their own engine to pull the old horse-drawn carriage. Once finished, it had been her idea to haul the motor in the old wheel barrel, and use the barrel to pull the carriage. Ramsey fondly referred to it as the barrelabout, and the name stuck. Although society wouldn't allow her to claim the dye or that she had anything to do with the building of the barrelabout, she used both talents to her advantage when designing ladies' hats for her millinery. The dye was applied to the fabrics that adorned her hats. Her trips with Ramsey to the dump was where she kept an eye out for gears, nuts, wire, old clock faces—anything that she could use in her designs. Yes, a hat shop was something a lady could own, and she had Ramsey to thank for being open-minded by welcoming her help in building the barrelabout.
As if the thoughts conjured up the vehicle, she saw it hidden in a copse of trees to her right. Her chest contracted as she realized the pixies told the truth. She crept closer to the building where Ramsey obviously was about to commit his mischief.
Dampness from night dew seeped through her thin-soled evening shoes. She crouched and peered hard at the wood siding that comprised the edifice, the moonlight tracing the frame of a window. It was high but not out of reach.
Dark stillness suffused the workhouse, indicating no late visitors. The light trill of a nearby nightingale mocked her. The wind whipped to life, whistling through the limbs of the surrounding copse of trees and making her shiver.
"Hurry," Allegro commanded close to her ear.
Startled, she fell back onto her rump with a cry, twigs stabbing through the delicate fabric of her dress. She gritted her teeth against the piercing discomfort. "Would you quit sneaking up on me?"
Allegro hovered nearby. "I'm not sneaking. You're simply not observant, no insult intended. Now, hurry."
"Wait a moment. How do you know I need to hurry?" As she struggled to her feet, and brushed off her dress, a thought suddenly occurred to her. "Your mission. Who is it?"
The pixie turned and blinked at her like a hoot owl. "Who is who?"
The urge to poke at him nearly overwhelmed her. "You know who I mean."
"No, Miss Diderot-Moore, I'm sorry to say that I don't."
Now Allegro was following Glissando's habit of calling her by two surnames
. She wished he would quit tacking on the Diderot. With a roll of her eyes, she said, "Who is it you're supposed to match me with? And don't insult me by repeating what Glissando said. Not under any circumstance could I believe I'm to be matched with Lieutenant Tell."
The pixie fluttered about as he rubbed the front of his waistcoat. "Well, now, let me see, we were given the mission only two days ago and the details are still fuzzy but the name of the lucky fellow is right on the tip of my ton—"
A muffled sound of splintering wood came from the workhouse.
Allegro's eyes widened at the noise, and he began to fly circles above her head. "Hurry."
"Aye, be quick, Miss Diderot-Moore," Glissando agreed.
She realized his voice came from her reticule where it dangled at her side.
Glissando's light glowed red through the opening secured by drawstrings. "No time for chitchat, miss. It's almost too late!"
Deep urgency filled her. How many times had she worried about Ramsey and his reckless ways? Ever since their mothers died years ago in a carriage accident and Ramsey had come to live with her and her father at the feisty age of four, she'd been pulling him out of one scrape after another—her being the mature age of nine. Long ago she'd learned to trust her instincts; she couldn't ignore the tremors of warning now. She pulled the drawstring wide and held the bag up toward Allegro. "Stay with Glissando. You're too strange and are bound to attract attention."
Allegro fluttered his wings, the pastel colors somehow bright in the dark night. "Nobody can see us but you."
"Then, I can't concentrate when you're always startling me. Go on, return to my reticule." She indicated the silk bag dangling at her wrist.
Glissando's legs were crossed, his hands stretched beneath his head. "Come, Allegro. This is rather comfy, and it beats flying all the way. Besides, her request is small compared to what's about to happen."
Nicola frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Don't mind him. Make haste, miss." Allegro entered the reticule and sat in a far comer. Pulsating flashes of his bright yellow light mixed with the red glimmer from Glissando.
"I'll let you out as soon as I rescue Ramsey."
"Quit your addlepated talk and hurry, woman," Allegro grumbled.
Exasperated, Nicola drew the reticule shut and eased her way toward the building. As she neared the window, cold realization splashed over her. It was open. Dim low-burning wall sconces flared, giving her enough light to see.
She poked her head inside, and then shrieked, "No, Ramsey."
The sharp crack of an axe on a loom splintered the air, the reverberation in discord with the peaceful surroundings. The force of the strike knocked her bones together. Her reticule bounced. Glissando trilled a series of quick notes, the music haunting, beautiful. However, Allegro let loose a series of high, trumpet-like blasts, ruining the harmony. Her handbag gleamed like a Chinese lantern.
"Shhh!" Nicola admonished the Callers.
Ramsey glanced up, his dark brows beetled. "Nicola. You caused me to miss the mechanism."
"Thank the heavens I did!" Hoisting herself up, she perched on the window's broken opening. Wood bit into her backside. "Ouch."
"What are you doing here?" Ramsey asked in a low, angry tone.
"Saving you from deportation." She gritted her teeth and crawled through the window.
Ramsey shook his head. "You won't save me by yelling out my name for anyone passing to hear."
Not bothering to respond, she stood. The sound of ripping silk angered her even more. "Cogs, why did you have to choose tonight for your mischief? The Falcon is bound to discover you."
Ramsey curved his dear but arrogant mouth in a smirk. "This was the best opportunity, what with him busy honoring us commoners with his exalted presence."
She walked between two rows of worktables with piles of raw cloth on each. The wall sconces offered little light, casting eerie shadows in the comers of the old workroom that was filled with at least twenty looms. She made her way toward Ramsey, who stood near the largest machine. Even in the dim illumination, she could see the ugly scar in the rich-looking mahogany frame. Her mouth dried.
Just recalling Malcolm Addison's austere, intent regard, and the warning bolt of electricity that had gone through her, had apprehension curling down Nicola's spine. "Falconwood looked bored. He could very well leave for home early—or come here."
"Bored? You don't know aristocrats like I do. You know, from the clubs in London?" Ramsey gave an impatient wave of his hand, his sturdy shoulders bunching. "He was playing whist and deep into the game. Didn't you see him? Why, he acted as if he would be there all night."
Halting between Ramsey and the loom, Nicola wagged her finger at him. It was an action she knew he resented, but for years she'd assumed the role of surrogate mother and it was difficult to curb old habits. "You've got to stop endangering yourself like this. You're much too rash."
Scowling at her, he ran a hand through his curly red locks. "Is it too rash to support General Luddite and the stockingers? I thought you wanted to help in the cause, too."
"You know I do." The plight of the stockingers, those who labored long and hard, weaving on the hosiers' looms yet received ridiculously low wages for all their hours of work, wrenched her heart. Yes, she remembered more clearly than Ramsey those early days when her father had been in the same harrowing predicament, being a stockinger himself.
Memories crashed through her. Living from hand to mouth. Traveling from shire to shire, as her father searched for work. Then getting fired for making poor-quality fabric that her father and the other stockingers were helpless to prevent. Oh, she knew exactly how the hosiers treated their subordinates. They forced the weavers to use wide looms designed for pantaloons to make several products. Every stockinger knew that the weave from such a loom, once cut up and sewn into stockings, would never last more than three months.
It had been a bitter pill for her father to swallow, to be censured by the public for substandard clothing. Although it chafed her not to get the credit, she'd been fiercely glad when he claimed and marketed her dyes, thereby getting the family out of the weaving business. The dyes had allowed them to settle in Nottingham—to climb in social rank to the middle class.
But others weren't so fortunate, and now the pay was even lower than twelve years ago. No, nothing touched her more than General Luddite's tireless efforts on the stockingers' behalf. "But destroying someone else's equipment will do nothing to further our cause!" With a sinking feeling, she turned to examine the deep gouge in Falconwood's magnificent loom. "How could you do this?"
From the thrust of his chin, she knew Ramsey wasn't going to cooperate. "The handbills haven't worked."
"Don't be so hasty. It takes time for people to change their attitudes."
"My destruction of this loom will cause the government to sit up and realize it needs to change its attitude sooner. Falcon has a place in Parliament, and he will be the first to realize that we're serious about the injustice toward stockingers. If he wants to save his looms, he'll petition to change the law."
For some reason, she didn't think Falcon would be that malleable. "Listen to me. Your deeds will land you in gaol or worse."
"Why are you so averse to the cause all of a sudden?"
A shiver ran down her back. "Somehow, I have the feeling your actions will only strengthen the Black Falcon's resolve to squelch the Luddite Rebellion. In my estimation, he will never cower, or give in to threats."
Ramsey's eyes widened. "Why, you sound as if you admire him!"
Even when Falcon was an adolescent, growing up here in Nottingham, she had sensed the almost ruthless aggressiveness in him. She remembered how he'd raced on the back of his black Arabian with his older brother. A fierce competitiveness had vibrated from him, and she had the keen sense he would merely take the ruining of his loom as a challenge. "Perhaps I do, in a way. But I think it's more a healthy respect."
Ramsey's mouth thinned. "He has no business su
pporting the already rich hosiers."
"How do you know he supports them? Perhaps he'll help the stockingers instead."
"And forgo profit? Bah, that's a laugh. He's not what I would call generous. In fact, he's ruthless." For emphasis, her cousin pounded the head of his axe on the wooden floor. "Hammer and nails, Nicola, have you forgotten that he killed his brother for the title? At least his father was wise enough to recognize his son's perfidy and kicked him out of the country. I realize we were only striplings at the time, but I remember."
"How could I forget?"
Ramsey snorted, and his mouth turned down. "Now that his father is dead, he thinks he can waltz back to Nottingham. Why doesn't he stay in London?"
Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles) Page 3
