by Anne Mallory
“Aunt Effie?” Abigail rose into a sitting position, alarmed by the look of the ghost. “What are you…?”
The edges of Effie’s old-fashioned dress crackled, faded, then crackled again. Abigail swiped the covers away and scurried over to where the apparition sat. “What is happening to you? Were you hit by the man yesterday?”
“No, dear. It is just lemon season upon us.” Effie smiled gently. “Lemons are lovely, do not fear them.”
Abigail sank down and held out a finger to Effie, but it slid through just as it always had. “Why is it that now you have started to converse with me in a real manner? Why can’t I touch you?”
“You are at a crossroads and I am in your grasp.”
“What do you mean?”
Effie sipped her tea. “I do not know. Only that you are at a crossroads. Lemons, dear.”
“But why now?”
Effie continued sipping.
“Lord Rainewood?”
Effie tilted her head. “I am but a spirit, dear. I only see that lemons are within your grasp or in danger of falling, rotting, unpicked.”
“Miss?”
Abigail turned to see Telly standing by the dressing table. She wondered how long her maid had been there.
“Yes, Telly?”
“Your mother wants to know whether you intend to keep the appointment today with Lord Basil.”
Abigail looked back at Effie, who merely kept sipping. “Tell her that I do.”
“Very well, miss. I will deliver the message then be back to help you change.” Telly slipped from the room.
“You are up. Finally.” Valerian had somehow slipped inside too.
She rose, feeling the color in her cheeks follow the movement. What to say to him?
She smoothed her hands down her nightgown, watching them, and thinking of other fingers touching the fabric. “I am.”
Fingers touched her chin instead, lifting it. “Embarrassed, Abigail?” His eyes drifted past her to her dressing table. Something shifted in the dark brown. “Don’t be embarrassed.”
Telly returned before she could say or do anything truly embarrassing—like throwing herself at him or admitting secret thoughts aloud.
She changed into a morning gown and tried to keep up thoughtless, easy conversation with both her maid and Valerian—a hard prospect when Telly kept twitching. She’d have to ask her about that later.
Abigail walked downstairs to where her mother and Mrs. Browning had gathered over steaming cups of tea.
She clasped her hands in front of her and said as calmly as she could manage, “I need to run to Bond Street to secure new ribbons.”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Browning said. “After your absence at all events yesterday, being tardy today will not do.”
Abigail kept the smile on her face and her eyes focused on her mother.
“Be quick,” her mother said in a quiet voice.
Mrs. Browning’s head shot to the side in complete shock. She had never been overruled in the household before. “Mrs. Smart,” she sputtered, and Abigail took perverse pleasure in the reaction.
“Thank you, Mother. I will be back in plenty of time.”
She gathered Telly and walked toward the door. She turned back just in time to see Valerian, following lazily behind, smirk at Mrs. Browning and make a rude gesture. Abigail would have given her real ribbon money to have seen him do that where Mrs. Browning could see it.
They hailed a hack as soon as they could. She cursed her foolishness for taking the family carriage the night before. Not that the driver would know to say anything other than how odd she continued to act.
Of the last five places on Telly’s list, the first two were not possibilities, but the third, O’Malley’s Tavern was located across from what looked like an abandoned building. A building with windows that faced the tavern sign.
“We could—”
“No, Abigail. I forbid it.”
“But it’s a possibility.”
“And I’ll figure out on your outing how I can search it, if needed.” The edges of his mouth turned down. “You will stay away from that building.”
“But—”
“There is no time anyway. Don’t push your mother or that harpy you hired. Let’s drive past the final two and return.”
She gave in and told Telly to give the driver directions for the final two places, much to her maid’s relief. The final two yielded nothing.
O’Malley’s was the most likely candidate and she found her blood pumping a little more quickly, and her heart racing a little more erratically, at the thought that they might find him.
“I’ll gather information on the tavern and surrounding buildings, miss.”
“Excellent, Telly.”
“Yes, let your maid do it.” Valerian tilted his head back against the seat in a manner that stated he expected to be obeyed.
Abigail glared. Some things remained the same.
They returned home in time for Abigail to change and receive a reprimand from Mrs. Browning for her near tardiness. She grilled Abigail on what shops they had frequented and demanded to see the new ribbons. Thankfully, Valerian had suggested they purchase some.
Her mother kept silent throughout. There was still a slice of underlying fear that her mother would revert back to her former position regarding her treatment, yet the new sense of purpose that had bloomed in the wake of the tentative renewal of friendship with Valerian, and the quest to find him, kept the fear just below the surface.
Basil arrived in one of the open family carriages about half an hour later.
He greeted them with a jaunty gait and smile. “Miss Smart, I’m looking forward to our outing. I hope you like my surprise.”
She hoped she did as well. She was taking a chance by going with him and she could hear and feel Valerian’s displeasure.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Lord Basil,” Mrs. Browning said, “where are we going?”
“Hobbyhorse races in the park. There will be a number of familiar faces in attendance. And a chance to try the vehicles, should one desire. Though, perhaps not to race, unless one is daring enough.” He smiled winningly.
Valerian snorted, circling his brother with narrowed eyes. Mrs. Browning looked less than ecstatic.
“Excellent, Lord Basil,” Abigail said, smiling back. That sounded safe. Nice large crowd. Plenty of people she’d know in attendance. She smiled at Valerian, trying to indicate relief, but he continued to maintain his dark look.
“I do hope you are interested in the races, Miss Smart,” Basil said after they settled into the carriage.
He began expertly guiding the team. She wondered when he had gotten past his childhood weakness and become so adept.
“I expressly thought it something you might want to see,” he added.
She and her mother had left their house in the country and moved to London before Basil had fully recovered. A move that her mother had deemed the next step in establishing themselves. A move that had separated Abigail from the sorrow and demons of the estate. She hadn’t put up a fuss.
If she had known what awaited her in London with the doctor, she might have.
“I am,” she answered. “I confess that I have been most interested in witnessing how they work.” She didn’t add that Mrs. Browning found them plebeian and so they had abstained from the activity in the past. Only Lord Basil’s standing and the fact that the invitation had been issued in front of the dowager kept the woman smiling grimly now.
“Capital. I am sure that we can get you on one as well. There’s even a version for the ladies.”
“No,” Valerian said sharply from his seat inside Mrs. Browning. He seemed to enjoy making the woman shiver uncontrollably. It was still disconcerting to see their double features together, like some childish painting. “Do not attempt to ride one, Smart.”
She smiled at Basil. “That would be quite the lark, Lord Basil. I do believe that it would give my mother a fright, however. She is a t
errible worrywart.”
Her mother simply nodded, but Abigail focused on Valerian as she said it. His eyes narrowed in promised retribution.
“Do you have a fondness for racing, Lord Basil? Or for the hobbies in particular?” Abigail hadn’t heard of him being exceptionally prone to gambling or sport.
“Science. I find modern science completely enthralling. Johnson’s design is masterful and I find myself excited for what might happen next. The rails and steel monsters that are all the newest whisper on science’s lips are fantastic to contemplate. Can you imagine what we might accomplish with interconnecting rails—twice as fast as horses, with none of the stops needed?”
“You should speak to Mr. Brockwell. He is also a lover of all things mechanical.”
“I have,” he said surprising her. “Just because my brother chose—chooses—not to, does not mean that I have to follow,” he said calmly, but his knuckles whitened around the edges.
Valerian muttered something inappropriate.
“That is too true, Lord Basil.” She wasn’t sure about his choice of tense, but let it pass, unable to say anything about it without bringing uncomfortable attention to the matter.
Mrs. Browning continued to adjust her shawl against the chill only she could feel while Abigail’s mother stared from the side of the open vehicle, a latent sadness in her eyes. Basil continued speaking about the merits of Phillip’s mind and the Young Scientist’s Society. Valerian muttered something, his lips moving on Mrs. Browning’s large forehead, his eyes dark in her high, knotted hair.
Abigail felt a sudden disconcerting notion that she had already entered the gates of Bedlam for the final time, never to return outside.
They arrived in the park to a sea of faces. All of Valerian’s cronies were there as well as Basil’s. She was surprised to see other faces as well—Gregory and Phillip, and a few other men and women that she wouldn’t have associated with the event. Then again, dandy horses were all the rage and nearly everyone wanted to be in on the latest frenzy. And Basil had just finished his explanation on Phillip’s keen mind and enthusiasm, so perhaps she should have expected it.
Gregory gave her a dark look as she stepped from the carriage with Basil’s help. Phillip just chewed his lip.
She gave a wave, chewing her own lip when only Phillip tentatively returned the gesture. She tried to shrug off Gregory’s snub as Basil helped her mother and Mrs. Browning from the carriage.
The crowd was gathered around five hobbyhorses held by waiting servants. Curved smooth wood with perky saddles on top. One of the more daring ladies rode around the crowd on a modified horse fit for her skirts—her feet pushing along the ground in demure strides. Abigail would have loved to try one had circumstances been different. Had she been out of the eye of the public, and assured that no one meant her harm.
The lady preened under the attention of the rogues and dandies who were eyeing the machine, and eyeing the hem of her dress brushing her moving slippers—hoping for a bit of a show, no doubt.
Mr. Stagen walked toward them, an unreadable expression on his face, his walking stick thumping against the earth. “Lord Basil, Miss Smart.” He acknowledged the two older women as well when they drew alongside. “A good day for racing, is it not? The skies seem to be holding to themselves.”
Stagen had never been rude to her before, more a figure watching from the side, powerful in his own way, but more apt to keep his own counsel in public, at least. But he had never chosen to speak to or approach her before Valerian had disappeared either.
She gamely played along, as if it were normal for the two of them to converse informally. “Who is racing?” she asked, having not kept up with that aspect of the gossip, too many other things on her mind.
“Many of the gentlemen here, and even a few of the more spirited ladies, should you wish to join.” He pointed at the woman still riding around on her wooden steed. “There is no one here that will gainsay you, should you wish to try it.”
There was something probing in his eyes. Watching, questioning, accusing. Perhaps a combination of all of those things.
Valerian had been the natural leader of the group. Templing had been the witted viper. With both of them gone, the popular group was subdued.
“That is true.” She met his eyes squarely. There was something about Stagen that said she could trust him to be on Valerian’s side at the very least. That didn’t mean he was on hers, however.
Stagen returned her regard, then tipped his head. “And there are a few individual races. Campbell and Penshard have a special bet.”
She looked sharply at Gregory, who was examining his nails, seemingly bored.
“Why?”
“A challenge. I don’t know the details,” Stagen said, twirling his stick in the dirt. She narrowed her eyes. She’d bet every groat in every pocket in attendance that he knew exactly what the challenge was about and how it had come into being.
“I see.”
“You should ask Penshard.” Stagen’s eyes still questioned, his head still tilted in consideration, but there was a less sharp quality to him than there had been when he’d first approached.
“Perhaps I shall. But a gentleman hardly enjoys speaking of his bets with a lady.” She tested his new relaxed stance. “Or about other matters that he might find questionable.”
“Abigail, Stagen will draw and quarter you,” Valerian warned from somewhere behind her.
Stagen gave his stick another twirl. “That is true, Miss Smart. But someone else might be able to tell you—your friend Miss Penshard, perhaps?”
“Riders in the first race, line up!”
Abigail watched as the first five men stepped forward, pulling their hobbyhorses from the hands of the servants and into position at the makeshift starting line.
They mounted the wooden beasts.
Campbell walked toward their group, smiling. Valerian said something under his breath behind her. Stagen’s stance changed again, more alert and wary as Campbell navigated the crowd.
“Go!”
The men kicked off, their legs racing along the ground. One of the men tried to run too quickly after kicking off and became entangled in his own momentum. He lurched forward, turning the wheel and veering to the right before toppling and crashing to the ground. The crowd laughed and the man’s friend rushed over to see if he was hurt.
The other four vehicles raced down the slope, two of the men stretching their legs forward to ride with the gathered momentum while the other two tried to gain an extra burst of speed.
The crowd cheered and a knot of people surged forward to try and chase the contestants down the hill.
Campbell finished edging through the crowd to stand next to her. She saw a familiar hand reach forward and try to flick him before falling through. Campbell’s brows pulled together before smoothing. “Miss Smart.”
“Mr. Campbell.”
“It is wonderful to see you here.” He looked at Basil, who raised his brows. Stagen’s were drawn and disapproving.
“And you, Mr. Campbell.” It was as if she was living in a strange dream from which she could not escape. All of these men, friends of Valerian, had ignored her as if she had some interminable disease before his disappearance. “Are you prepared for your race?”
“I’ve been practicing at Johnson’s for the past two days. I should be.”
Johnson’s riding school. She wondered if Gregory had done likewise.
“Laudable, Mr. Campbell,” Mrs. Browning interrupted. “Better than riding through the streets like some of those other men.”
Campbell bowed to Mrs. Browning. “Thank you, Mrs. Browning.” But Abigail noticed his shifty eyes. The man had obviously jockeyed with the horse traffic like so many other idiotic blades and Corinthians.
The crowd went wild and she looked to see that the first race had finished while she hadn’t been paying attention.
Campbell stepped closer and Valerian put a hand on her back. “Get rid of him, Abigail. I
’m telling you, he’s up to something. I know Campbell.”
Valerian had gone to school with all of these men. Had changed because of it. Something she shouldn’t forget.
“What do you think of them, Miss Smart?” Campbell asked, one hand splayed out toward the hobbyhorses.
“They look like quite the adventure.”
“Are you looking for adventure, Miss Smart? Would you like to try riding one?”
There was something about the way he said it. Stagen’s eyes darkened. Valerian snarled behind her.
Basil had struck up a conversation on the matters of style between one wooden horse and another and was looking the other way. Mrs. Browning was speaking to a lady on her left. Neither appeared to have heard the comment.
“Perhaps some day, Mr. Campbell. I’m afraid I’m ill-prepared today.”
“It is great fun though. A true adventure. I have heard that you are interested in adventure.”
“I’ve already offered to procure a hobbyhorse for her, Campbell,” Basil said, turning back. She noticed that Stagen’s walking stick was slowly drawing away from the side of Basil’s foot. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for your race?”
“I should.” Campbell tossed his head with a charming smile. “But I couldn’t resist asking the fair lady for a favor.”
She examined Campbell, whose eyes were wide and innocent. Basil waited, head cocked. Stagen swirled his stick through the dirt in a spiraled pattern as if he hadn’t just alerted Basil to the conversation.
“I cannot in good conscience offer one when I’ve come with Lord Basil,” she said as demurely as she could manage in this new situation under which she had little experience.
“Danforth won’t mind, will you, friend? He’s not racing, so he has no need of the luck.”
Basil’s eyes never left Campbell. “If you wish to give him a favor, feel free, Miss Smart.”
Mrs. Browning and her mother were still chatting with another set of matrons on their left. Abigail looked back to the men.
“Yes, give Campbell a good-luck charm, Miss Smart. He needs it,” came a voice to the other side. Gregory navigated the bodies around their crowd. “Can’t win on his own.”
