by Sahara Kelly
She was right, of course. And Portia had no doubt that once there her Papa would enjoy the latest steam-driven devices, which would be prominently displayed. He would find that much more agreeable than squiring his eldest daughter around while she sized up potential suitors.
She’d been correct. Last night, upon his return, he’d entertained her with a description of the latest levitation device, a working sideboard which served dishes all by itself, and kept them warm, and an incredible assortment of the latest fancy—decorative pseudo-classical statuary, all of which was mechanized to some degree. An airship had landed in an adjoining field, he’d said, and there were plenty of carriages puttering back and forth, none of which required horses.
But she couldn’t, no matter how she tried, get any kind of confirmation out of him that he’d seen Miranda there, at the Conservatory.
He thought perhaps he had caught a glimpse of her, but there were so many other young women there wearing gowns that were similar in hue. Other than confirming the times, the food and other basic details of the early part of the evening, Papa hadn’t contributed much of anything. Which, given the erratic and somewhat casual nature of her parents’ attitude toward the actual task of parenting, wasn’t surprising.
She stared at her paper and with a sigh began another column.
“Things I don’t Know”.
Top of that list was whether Miranda had been spotted at the ball. She might be able to pursue this matter with a few neighbors who knew guests who had attended last evening and she rapidly wrote down several names. It wasn’t a strong clue, but it was something.
If she could find out whether Miranda had made it to Coralfield, then she’d have a place to begin her quest. With that goal in mind, Portia set out to walk the few miles separating her from what might be the answer.
Her objective was the local telegraph.
Not a shining machine that hummed and whirred and clacked pretty much non-stop, although there were three of those in Lower Harbury. No, Portia’s footsteps took her to Mrs. Onslow’s Millinery for Discriminating Ladies. The delightfully over-decorated façade concealed a thriving hat shop and one of the best sources of local information imaginable.
Portia was privately convinced that if the War Office hired Mrs. Onslow, they could shorten the ongoing conflict in India by at least five years. However, she wasn’t there for official secrets today, just post-Mechanical Ball gossip.
The tiny bell tinkled happily as she pushed the door open, and the immediate cessation of chatter told her that word of Miranda’s disappearance had spread.
She sighed. “Good morning Mrs. Onslow. Ladies.” She nodded to the handful of customers. “Yes, it’s true. We can’t find Miranda. I need your help.”
Best to go straight to the point sometimes. These women would twist anything subtle into whatever they wanted.
It appeared she’d done the right thing. Within moments she was settled in one of the pastel-striped overstuffed chairs, with a cup of tea at her side. A little maid brought in scones and everyone turned their attention to Portia’s problem and the goings-on last night.
Mrs. Onslow, a large woman with a surprisingly deft touch when it came to hats, chaired the impromptu meeting.
“Well, dear, you’ve done the right thing by stopping by. Such a worry. Your Miranda is so beautiful…well, it’s a wonder you’re not collapsed with fear. Terrible things happen to lovely gels. Just terrible.”
Her bulk shuddered in horror, and a murmur of sympathetic agreement made the feathers on several nearby hats tremble even more than Mrs. Onslow.
“However, we won’t get anywhere unless we put our minds to it.” The proprietress shook herself out of her angst and buttered a scone. “So…let’s see. Who has talked to anyone who was at the ball last night?”
The talk turned to the matter at hand and for the next hour or so, Portia gathered every bit of information she could, discarding nothing as irrelevant or trivial.
When she finally departed, with hugs and reassurances from the gathering of gossips, she almost felt as if she’d visited Coralfield herself. Goodness, the ladies had spent a very active morning mining their sources for every tiny detail.
Turning her steps to the village center to complete a couple of mundane errands, she mused on what she had learned.
One thing was obvious. Nobody had mentioned seeing Miranda anywhere during the actual ball at the Conservatory. Several had mentioned her at Harbury Hall. A young woman of her beauty will occasion comments, so Portia felt pretty certain that she was drawing the right conclusion.
Miranda had never reached Coralfield.
Which put the focus of Portia’s thoughts right smack into the mystery that was Harbury Hall.
*~~*~~*
“Pardon me, Madam. You have a visitor.”
The gently apologetic tone of Lady Harbury’s butler penetrated the silence of her private parlor and she glanced up from her desk. “A visitor? Well who is it, Malcolm?”
“He says his name is James Burke, Madam. He is apparently attached to the Lord Lieutenant’s Office in some sort of investigatory capacity. I believe he may be one of those police people.”
“Really?” Intrigued, Alwynne Harbury raised one eyebrow. “This might be interesting. Do show him in.”
“Er, here, Madam? Shouldn’t that sort of person best be kept to the hall? Or some other public place?”
Alwynne allowed herself a slight chuckle. “Don’t be a snob. Show the man in.”
Malcolm huffed from the room, leaving an air of disapproval in his wake. It didn’t bother her; he was an excellent butler and very discreet. Plus he seemed able to handle her husband when necessary.
That alone was a skill worth its weight in gold.
Randall’s obsession was growing worse, she knew. The mask was an affectation he could manage publicly, thanks to his social status. Aristocrats were permitted—sometimes even encouraged—to behave oddly. But his physical condition was also worsening.
Alwynne could only wait upon developments. She could not stem the increasing violence, nor could she halt the depression, the need for strange chemical stimulants or the diminishing ability to sleep.
Had Lord Harbury been anyone other than who he was, he might have been in a Bedlam cell by now. But having a title and an incalculably huge fortune had kept him ensconced in luxurious comfort.
And had funded his experimental laboratories, for which she was quite grateful. She knew that the gift of continual beauty she accepted on a regular basis was more than enough to justify his occasional lapses into something akin to a nightmare.
She avoided them whenever possible. Especially since she’d personally cleaned up some traces of unpleasantness from the last episode.
Thankfully the girl had been an orphan.
The door opened again and distracted her from her ugly thoughts.
“Mr. James Burke, Madam.”
She rose and straightened her skirts, running one long-fingered hand over the dove-grey silks and adjusting a pink rose.
“Lady Harbury.” A tall figure approached her desk and bowed correctly. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Not at all, Mr. Burke. I understand you work with Lord Southfield. Any associate of his is always welcome here.”
He nodded his thanks and moved to the chair she indicated with a wave of her hand. “Do tell me what has brought you to Harbury Hall?”
As he cleared his throat, she seated herself behind her desk again and took stock of him.
Dark hair, well-tended. Dark eyes, a healthy complexion…well built beneath his conservative clothing. This was a mature man who enjoyed being outdoors. As he removed a small book from his jacket and opened it, she observed that his hands were large, but the fingers tapered…not the hands of a farmer or a laborer. No, somewhere in his heritage there was good blue blood.
His voice was also cultured, betraying just the slightest hint of London. All in all, he was a charming man. One she wouldn’t mind
dallying with, should the urge arise.
But he was speaking. She dragged her thoughts away from what might lie beneath his breeches and paid attention.
“…pursuing enquiries as to Miss Miranda Fielding’s disappearance.”
Alwynne blinked. “Oh dear. Someone has vanished?”
“Yes, Ma’am. One of your guests. Miss Fielding and her father attended dinner here last night, before the Mechanical Ball. She informed her Papa that she had met up with friends and would meet him at the event. Sadly, that did not happen and this morning the Fielding household notified Lord Southfield that the young lady had not returned home at all.”
Alwynne’s brain sizzled with activity as she hurriedly reviewed her husband’s whereabouts during the time in question. With an inner sigh of relief, she realized he could not have been involved.
“I am desolate to hear of this, Mr. Burke.” She paused. “Forgive me. Is there some correct way I should address you?”
He colored a little but acknowledged her courtesy with a slight dip of his head. “I am an Inspector, Ma’am. Part of the Adjunct Investigative Division. We’re based in London, but put ourselves at the disposal of Lord Lieutenants, should there be an unhappy occurrence they feel best handled by those with experience in such things.”
Alwynne nodded. “Then Inspector Burke it shall be.” She folded her hands on the desk. “Sadly, Inspector, I cannot be of much assistance. I do recall Miss Fielding, of course. A lovely girl, well dressed and very polite. Accompanied as you mentioned by her Papa.”
Another pause, more for effect this time, since Alwynne’s methodical mind had already assembled a timeline of events for the Inspector. “You must forgive my lack of information. I think I can tell you where she was seated…”
Alwynne tapped her lip in thought. “Next to the Vicar, if I’m not mistaken. And on the other side was that dreadful flirt Sir Reginald Dinwold. However, Lady Dinwold was also in attendance, so I can’t imagine anything untoward taking place at his hands. His wife would never permit it.”
The Inspector nodded. “That confirms other reports of your festivities, Lady Harbury. My thanks. As hostess I’m sure you have to observe most of your guests as best you can, so if I may ask…might you have noticed the young woman talking to someone, perhaps? Or walking out to the garden?”
She blinked. “Um, not that I can recall.”
“Very well then.” The Inspector rose with a sigh. “Thank you again for your time.”
He bowed and turned for the door.
“Wait.” She stopped him. “I think…yes, I think I recall seeing her leave the salon just as the gentlemen returned from their after-dinner port. The only reason I noticed was that her dress, silk and sparkle in that lovely shade of blue, caught the light for a moment just outside our doors, and I thought that if the guests started leaving that way I’d have the devil’s own job getting them into carriages for Coralfield.”
His face tightened. “That is most interesting, Ma’am. And potentially quite valuable. Might I ask your permission to visit that area on my way out? If it’s not inconvenient of course.”
“Not at all, Inspector. Just ask Malcolm to take you to the Gold salon. I expect the doors are open now since the servants will be cleaning up. It was quite a full house last night.”
She smiled, hiding the wave of satisfaction that made her want to purr like a contented cat.
“You are most kind. I will do as you suggest.” He bowed again and moved to the door that, she knew, was about to open for him. Malcolm was prescient when it came to those things.
In the ensuing silence, Alwynne stared from her window. She loved Harbury Hall being the cynosure of the Ton, but only in a positive way. Any hint of untoward activity or scandal…that would be ruination of the most devastating kind.
Rising, she tidied the papers on her desk, put her quill away and corked her inkwell. It would be appropriate at this juncture to pay a brief call on her scientific team, including Henderson, who had sent a note a few hours earlier about the progress of his particular endeavor.
And while she was beneath the world, to make some discreet enquiries about any activities that might have occurred last night.
One should always be prepared whenever possible.
On that thought, Lady Alwynne whisked herself off to the ornate lift door tucked into one shadowed corner of her parlor. If there was anything she should know, best she know it now.
Tapping one foot she waited for the signal that the device had arrived at her floor. The countryside around Harbury was laden with charmingly obsequious locals, many of whom were still terrified of the dirigibles and occasionally noisy mechanical carriages. Their intellect was limited.
Unfortunately, if Alwynne’s assessment was correct, Inspector Burke wasn’t one of them.
She stepped into the little box and pushed the button for floor six.
Her assessments were never wrong. She needed to be very, very careful, lest her carefully constructed world explode with as much force as the last hydro-thonirium grenade.
That one had taken out half of Siam.
Chapter 5
Portia Fielding was caught in a bit of a dilemma.
Exactly how much should she tell her family of her plans? Her mother was still secluded in her rooms, awaiting the birth of the latest Fielding and with instructions that nobody was to disturb her.
In truth, nobody wanted to. Nobody wanted to tell a woman who was a scant moment away from motherhood that the eldest of her brood was missing.
Nor did Portia wish to reveal that the second eldest was about to embark on an adventure that everyone would condemn as foolhardy at the least and incredibly dangerous at most.
She had returned from her jaunt to Lower Harbury with a lot to consider, and a crumpled sheet of paper in her pocket.
She’d spent the rest of the day in her room or chatting inconsequentially with the family. They knew she was worried about Miranda, as were they, but the difference lay in their readiness to let the authorities handle the matter and bring Miranda home.
Portia had no such confidence, and was determined to do the thing herself. The paper was the key. It was a discreet advertisement for a housemaid. And it came from Harbury Hall.
Admittedly Portia knew little about being a maid, but how hard could it be? She was past nineteen, had lived around servants all her life, and wasn’t any kind of society miss the Harburys would recognize since she hadn’t attended any formal functions yet. And it was well known that the Hall seldom hired locals. Mostly because the locals knew its reputation and didn’t want to have anything to do with the place.
She had no claim to beauty, could slip into a country accent and entertain her family at the drop of a hat—which she did on many occasions—and didn’t know anyone at the Hall.
For that night and all the following day, she turned plans over in her mind, absently watching the servants as they bustled around Chase Park. She noted the way Susie used the universal sweeper…not difficult, since Portia herself had assembled more than half of it.
As the day passed with no word from either Miranda or the authorities, Portia became more and more convinced she was doing the right thing. She rummaged in her wardrobe and found an old gown she’d saved because it was comfortable, a bit faded from many washings, and perfect for berry-picking since it didn’t matter if she got blackberry stains on it, which she always did.
There was a small portmanteau tucked away, something that would also serve as a useful accessory. She could fold a few spare garments into it, since a maid wouldn’t arrive for an interview empty handed. Especially if she was from somewhere else, which was what Portia intended.
Her plan germinated as she worked, finding the items she required, packing them and quietly putting it all together. She was going to be from the Isle of Wight, somewhere she’d been so she could talk knowledgeably about it if she needed to. She was also going to be an orphan—sorry Mama and Papa—and a girl with no siblings. A
gain, apologies to the six…no soon to be seven…of her brothers and sisters.
She was looking for employment as a housemaid and this was her first time in service. She’d penned a letter of recommendation for herself from a friend of her Papa’s, who would most likely tie Portia to her bed if she ever found out what her friend’s daughter was up to.
But that was neither here nor there. It merely secured yet another loose end.
As the day ended, Portia looked at herself in her nightrobe. She was the tallest of the Fieldings, and the slenderest. So there wasn’t the whole danger-to-her-virtue thing to worry about. Nobody would get any ideas about a skinny beanpole of a girl. She had the right clothes, could easily slide into the soft burr of a Hampshire resident, and the letter of recommendation was tucked safely away.
Hmm.
She grabbed her scissors. This she had to do, just in case. She couldn’t take the risk that someone, somewhere, at some time had noticed her tortoiseshell hair. Most of the time it was bundled into a braid, which hid almost all of the soft blonde streaks. But when she let it down, it was unusual, shining with that gleam not unlike a tiger’s eye jewel or the inside of a tortoise shell when highly polished.
There was an instant’s hesitation and then the fierce snipping began. Within moments a pile of thick lustrous hair lay at Portia’s feet and she raised her eyebrows as she ran her hands over short ends and felt the unaccustomed sensation of air on the back of her neck.
“Goodness.” She shook her head a little. “That feels rather nice.”
And, being Portia, that was that.
She tidied the room, cleared away every little trace of hair and anything that might betray a hint of her plans.
Come morning, she would transform herself into Mary Jones. An unremarkable and common enough name for an unremarkable girl. Mary Jones was going to Harbury Hall.
Even if they were shortsighted enough not to hire her, at least she’d be on the property and could do a little investigating. It was the best plan she could come up with.
