by Molly Tanzer
“What the deuce is going on here!”
Evadne almost dropped her rapier; she had been concentrating so completely that she hadn’t noticed anyone come into the academy, but barreling across the practice floor was a short but ferocious-looking older man with close-cropped white hair and a bristly mustache. He looked extremely annoyed.
“George! How dare you—teaching dueling! At my academy!”
Cantrell’s mask was off in a moment. “Mr. Perkins, I—”
“Thought you’d do it while I wasn’t here, eh? Thought you could just carry on covertly without me knowing? I may look old, but my mind is still sharp.”
“I wasn’t teaching dueling,” protested Cantrell. “I was just showing our newest student the virtues of—”
“A new student, on his first day, using a real rapier! Can’t you see how that would affect the mentality of someone new to the sport?”
“But she’s not new to it, Mr. Perkins.” Mr. Cantrell, who had seemed so bright and sparkling with joy and health, seemed to be shrinking under the berating of his master. “She’s fenced for years. I only barely beat her when I was testing her, and she had me panting like a greyhound at the end of it.”
“She!” Astonished, Mr. Perkins looked at Evadne. She dutifully removed her mask, and clutching it under her arm, moved to shake his hand. He seemed surprised, but took it. His grip was cool and dry, in spite of his anger.
“My name is Evadne Gray. A friend of mine recommended I train here while I was staying in London.”
“Here? Why didn’t he send you to one of the ladies’ fencing clubs? They’re more common than ever; lots of girls these days do it to keep fit.”
“I assume he sent me here because you are the best.” It was the right thing to say; her compliment calmed him substantially. Plenty of time later for him to find out that Mr. Cantrell and Freddie had been old school friends.
Perkins stroked his mustache. “I don’t know if we’re the best, but he’s not wrong that we are a quality institution—no matter what you may have seen today.”
“Mr. Cantrell wanted to show me how training with a heavier weapon might improve my endurance,” she said, taking a risk—she knew that hadn’t really been Mr. Cantrell’s intent, nor was it wholly polite to contradict a master, but at the same time, she would pour oil on these troubled waters if she could. She felt some responsibility for Mr. Cantrell’s public dressing-down. “I will need to increase my upper body strength, especially fencing here.”
“Well, well,” said Perkins, who to her pleasure seemed further mollified, “there are indeed good reasons to put a heavier weapon in someone’s hand . . . but on day one! I’m not sure if it’s appropriate for any student of any level, and that’s leaving aside the risk of falling into old habits.” He gave Mr. Cantrell a rather hard look. “But, I’ve said my piece. Welcome, Miss Gray—and I mean that, you are very welcome. You nearly beat George, eh?”
“Nine-ten, and the last was a double,” supplied Cantrell. “You should have seen me after; I was in a right state.” He smiled at Evadne warmly, and she was glad to see he didn’t seem miffed that she’d interceded on his behalf; in her experience, some men were sensitive about such things.
“Not bad, not bad,” said Perkins, looking Evadne up and down. “There’s always room for improvement. My feeling on the matter is that the goal of quality instruction isn’t to make a student the best fencer in the world, but rather the best fencer they can be.”
“That’s what I want,” said Evadne. In spite of his brusque manners, she liked Perkins very much. “After all, I shan’t be competing.”
“Competitions are well and good, but fencing ought to build one’s character first and foremost,” said Perkins. “Ah, well, I’ve already blathered on long enough! Go, practice, have a good time. I’ll be in my office.” And with that, he ambled away down the hall.
“Whew,” said Cantrell. He looked pale. “Sorry about that, Miss Gray, I wasn’t expecting . . .”
“It’s my fault,” she said.
“No, it’s not. I should have known better, as Trawless said.” Cantrell wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. He looked unwell; the encounter with Perkins must have shaken him worse than Evadne had realized. “Here, come—let’s have a cup of tea. I’m parched.”
Evadne wasn’t sure. Her eyes flickered over to Trawless, who nodded encouragingly before mouthing the words “Saint George.”
“I’d be delighted,” she said, smiling.
In the kitchen Mr. Cantrell filled a kettle and then set it to boil over a little gas burner.
“So, how is Thorny?” he asked, sitting down at the table.
“Very well,” said Evadne as neutrally as possible. “He’s engaged to a young woman, Miss Bell.”
“Oh, he finally popped the question, did he?” Cantrell chuckled. “Good! As pious as he pretended to be, I’m fairly certain he was thinking of her when we were supposed to be praying. Used to sneak out to meet her, too, after Sunday service. I very much disapproved of that; I mean, really, how unseemly for a future shepherd of souls to . . . well, it’s not important, is it?” he amended after glancing at her face. Evadne sat up straighter, mindful of Dorina’s remark that she always looked like she was sucking on a lemon.
“I’m very happy for him,” she said hastily. “He’s got himself a living, up in the north, and I think they shall be very happy together.”
“Perhaps so. To each his own . . . What I mean to say is, London may be a den of thieves, but at least there’s something to do other than cut wood or argue with one’s neighbors about sheep breeds.”
Evadne surprised herself with a laugh. “You might be right. I couldn’t say. I haven’t enjoyed London so far, but I’ve not been here long. At least now I know there’s somewhere I can go where sensible people act sensibly.”
“I agree with you,” said Cantrell. “People these days, they think it’s mad—fencing, I mean—but I say you never know when it’ll come in handy.” He unconsciously ran a finger along the white scar on his cheek. “Ah, there’s the kettle.”
He fussed over the tea for a few minutes, and Evadne made herself useful finding the sugar and milk. Eventually they met again at the table, mugs in hand.
“There we are,” he said, adding milk, but he did not take sugar from the bowl. Instead, he dropped in a little pastille, something just as white from a little tin he took from his pocket. Evadne hadn’t meant to stare—it was just so queer; when he noticed her looking, she blushed.
“Problems with my digestion,” he confided. “I’m supposed to take it with liquid.”
“I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to pry,” said Evadne.
“You didn’t.” He sipped his tea. “Ahh, that’s better. Nothing like a cup of tea to revive a chap . . . or a lady,” he amended, with a nod of his head. “Well, Miss Gray, what do you think? Are you satisfied with the facilities? Do you think you’d like to become a student?” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “My student?”
“Absolutely!” She blushed. “I mean . . . yes, I’d very much like to.”
“Miss Gray. If you become my student, I must insist you stop doing that.” Evadne was lost until he added, “You are a spirited fencer, a spirited person. There’s no reason why you should be ashamed of your enthusiasm.”
Usually, such impertinence would have sent Evadne right to the door. Instead, she smiled, albeit shyly, and nodded. “All right.”
“Let’s schedule you some lessons, then, before you go—but you should attend as many of the open clinics as you can. We need to get you practicing with different people at all levels. Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure the fellows won’t hassle you too much. Probably most of them will fall in love with you.”
Evadne hadn’t been concerned about being harassed or fallen in love with; she had been contemplating what it would mean to be so very social, with so many different people. “I hope none of them fall in love with me,” she said, alarmed. “I did not come here
to earn an MRS in fencing.”
“Of course you didn’t. I was only teasing . . . but a serious young woman like yourself will not like being teased. Forgive me.”
Evadne stared at him, astonished that this man could so quickly intuit something about her that her family never had, not in twenty-eight years of knowing her. He was so perceptive . . . which was probably why Mr. Cantrell was such a fantastic teacher. Oh, she was so glad she’d decided to come to the Westminster Fencing Academy! She couldn’t explain it, but she was supremely confident in his ability to improve her. The way he looked at her—focused on her.
No one had ever looked at her like that.
Evadne drained her tea and stood so hastily she almost upended her chair.
“I should go. They will wonder what’s kept me for so long,” she said, knowing it was entirely possible—no, probable—that her family had failed to notice she’d been gone at all.
“They is who?”
“My sister, Dorina, and my uncle, Basil Hallward.”
“Really?”
Something about the way he said it made Evadne think they might be acquainted. “Do you know him?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “He was the friend of a former student here, Oliver Wotton.”
Evadne hadn’t realized Oliver Wotton had fenced here. Her expression must have betrayed her surprise.
“You knew him?”
“No, but I’ve met his sister.”
Mr. Cantrell stood, and Evadne took a step back; it seemed the proper thing to do. “Funny old thing, isn’t she? I don’t know her well—she rarely ever came by. Mr. Hallward, however, used to come round to watch quite a bit. Sketched a few of us once—he’s supposed to be a fine artist.”
“My sister thinks so . . . She’s here to write a monograph on him. She wants to be an art critic.”
“And what do you want to be, Miss Gray?”
Evadne shrugged. “For now, a better fencer.”
“Touché!” He smiled down at her. “I’m glad you decided to join us.”
He extended his hand. She hesitated—before, when they’d shaken hands, he’d been wearing gloves. Touching his skin seemed an intimate act. Then again, she’d shaken hands with Trawless.
She grasped his hand and shook it firmly.
“I am too,” she said as he released her, more certain than ever that she’d made the right choice in coming here. She felt wonderful—better than she’d felt . . . well, maybe ever in her life. There was something about him—something about the idea of being under his supervision—that made her feel safe and warm.
And happy. The way he was looking at her made Evadne quite confident that he understood. She smiled back at him, noting how much better he looked after his cup of tea and their brief conversation. If there had been a mirror in the kitchen, she guessed she would look just as invigorated.
2
Every work that is done with feeling, be it artistic or political or violent or diabolic, is done in the honor of its creator, not its subject. It is not the subject that is revealed by the creator; it is rather the creator who reveals himself.
—On the Summoning of Demons
After her illuminating conversation with Henry regarding her queer statements about demons—of course she didn’t actually believe in them, she was only an open-minded sort of person—it was only her fight with Evadne that hung like a cloud over Dorina’s otherwise glorious day. She thought of her sister often as they toured the gardens, as they ate lovely ice creams, and even after they finished at the gardens, as they lingered over a lovely tea at the Savoy.
Dorina had been unfair to Evadne. She could admit it. She had said some things she did not really mean, and wanted to talk over the incident with her sister. Soon.
“Shall we do something tomorrow?” asked Henry as she polished off the last cress sandwich. “I dragged you all over the gardens today; I thought our next outing could be to the Victoria and Albert Museum.”
“Perhaps,” said Dorina. When Henry cocked an eyebrow at her, she sighed. “I should see if my sister has anything in mind. Now that I’m not so angry, I can see why she would be rather cross. She was sent to London because Mother decided I needed a chaperone, and I was so annoyed with her . . . but I really ought to have thought about how resentful she must feel about not only being in the city, but having to go to places she cares nothing about.”
“Where do you think she’d like to go?” There was no edge to Henry’s voice—she genuinely seemed to want to find something to do that interested both sisters. “Does she like shopping? We could walk down Regent Street and see the department stores.”
“Not really,” said Dorina. She felt a bit sheepish; apart from fencing, she couldn’t quite say what Evadne liked. “We should let her choose . . . Then again, it couldn’t hurt to offer a few ideas of our own?”
As they headed home, Dorina and Henry discussed the possibility of taking Evadne on a tour of London’s best chip shops, the Zoological Gardens, or perhaps Madame Tussaud’s waxworks. But, Lady Henry cautioned, they would have to finish their fun by five o’clock; she was having friends over that evening.
“Oh?” asked Dorina. Something about Henry’s tone made her very curious.
“Yes, just a little society I host at my home, nothing special,” she said, not quite meeting Dorina’s eyes.
This prevarication only made Dorina keener, of course. “I’m sure it’s lovely. What sort of society is it?”
Henry smiled. “A small group of like-minded individuals who appreciate the finer things.”
“What sort of finer things? Are you gourmands? Art critics? Theater aficionados?” Henry was not forthcoming, so Dorina prompted her further. “Horse racing? What do you do?”
“We . . . appreciate, that’s all,” said Henry. “But! Even if I’m busy tomorrow evening, that doesn’t mean we can’t do something in the late morning or early afternoon, so do ask your sister, and then send word to me.”
Dorina knew she would sound like a child if she tried to wrangle herself an invitation, when Henry was quite obviously avoiding taking her hints, but just the same, she was deeply intrigued. A society based around appreciation was just the sort of society she had dreamed of joining back in Swadlincote after determining that the life of a London intellectual was the life she wanted.
She decided to play it cool—for now. She had already been feeling Henry out all day: touching her to see her response, begging for cigarettes, so on and so forth. She would leave this for another day.
But before she left London, one way or another, she vowed she would find out what this little appreciation society was all about.
The coach turned the final corner before it reached Uncle Basil’s townhouse, and Dorina reached up and plunged her hands into her vast mass of curls, shaking out her mane while shimmying her shoulders in that way that girls always seemed to like. To her delight, Lady Henry watched her, and while her expression was skeptical, there was a hint of a smile that indicated she was enjoying the view. Dorina decided to take this as a good sign. She liked the older woman tremendously, and thought she was gorgeous . . . but she also sensed it would be easier to get an invite to her society if they were to become more than friends.
“That’s better,” she said, leaving off with her preening. “What a lovely day! I knew I would love London, but your attention has made this trip truly special.”
“I’m happy to give it,” said Henry, “and I confess I’ve enjoyed seeing London through your eyes. Fresh eyes. It’s been delightful.”
“Well, I’m determined to keep delighting you,” said Dorina playfully as they came to a halt. “I’ll send you a message soon. Bye!”
And she hopped out of the carriage without waiting for a reply, feeling very pleased with herself indeed. Henry was the sort of person who liked to have the last word, and who was very rarely frustrated; in Dorina’s experience with people like that, denying them only served to intrigue them.
She’d int
ended to speak with her sister directly, but to Dorina’s surprise, Evadne wasn’t home, and all the housekeeper could say was that Miss Gray was “out.” Her uncle was also unavailable—working, or at least, he was in his studio.
Feeling a bit annoyed that she’d ended her day early only to find herself alone, Dorina went up to her room, washed her face and hands, put on a more comfortable dress, and took down pen and paper so she could write their mother. The day they’d come in, Evadne had dashed off something to her about them being safely arrived, but Dorina had promised frequent and full accounts of their adventures. She ought to make good on the promise.
She hadn’t written more than a few paragraphs when Evadne returned. Dorina heard her at the door, and jumped up to greet her sister, only to stop short when she saw the state she was in.
Evadne had clearly been active in some way. It was a lovely hot day, and Dorina had taken many breaks in the shade while touring the pools and shady grottos of the Royal Gardens in order to avoid getting sweaty. Evadne, on the other hand, looked—and smelled—as if she’d gotten soaked through. Her hair lay plastered across her forehead and over her neck. She was wearing her bizarre fencing trouser-and-skirt combination, and had the grotesquely damp strap of her kit slung over her shoulder. A button on the bag had come undone, and to Dorina’s horror, she saw a scrap of one of Evadne’s new walking suits poking through—she had just balled it up in there! Why, the maid would never be able get the wrinkles out!
But she was looking happier than Dorina had seen her in a very long time.
“You’ve been fencing,” she said, and even to her own ears it sounded like an accusation.
“No, I went to the Seventh Annual All-London Lemon-Sucking Competition. I won a prize! But, as you can see, the competition was quite fierce, so I ought to go and change clothes before supper.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
