It stood, erect and dignified, showcasing its cream brick among its several floors. Two spires marked its outer sections, and a wide road passed between trees leading to the generous, manicured gardens to the side and back of the manor.
It was strange; even though Victoria grew up here, it didn’t feel like home. She tried to recall happier times, but nothing she’d felt during her childhood here reflected pleasantly for her. It didn’t compare to the thrill she’d had the moment her letter arrived, alerting her to her acceptance at the newly established Naut Academy for Girls, or the whirring in her chest as she’d been shown to her room at the Aviatory. Nothing could be better than the thought that she belonged there, that she could do more there than embroider cushions or be a pretty figure for some man’s admiration.
She’d been determined to be admired for something more than looks alone, or for skill at languages or dancing, as other young ladies aspired to. She wanted something different, something untouchable and only hers.
The corners of her mind blurred at the thought. It was as though an invisible hand pieced part of her away from the whole. Despite the view of her home through the hovney’s small window, another view flickered on the edge of her mind. It was a room with a wooden floor reflected in long panes of glass. Loose silk played against her skin, and she moved in a fluid gesture, arms outstretched . . .
“Miss Digby?”
Emory, the footman, held his hand out to help her descend the short ladder. Victoria inhaled, seeing the man fully as the strange image fled her thoughts. She gave him a grateful nod and entered through the Range’s grand front doors.
The main entry was as tall as it was wide; a single table with a magnificent display of flowers pinpointed the entry’s center over a circular floral rug. The same curving staircase bent to the left, stuck its tongue out at her as always. With a sigh, she removed her hat and coat.
“This is preposterous, Enid,” Uncle Jarvis’s voice boomed from the hall beyond the entryway. Their footsteps echoed. Mama wrung a handkerchief in her hands, her mouse-brown hair coiled up beneath a bonnet, though Victoria couldn’t tell whether her mother was coming or going.
Patches of red flushed along Uncle Jarvis’s thin cheekbones, and his usually composed hair stuck up in several places. His eyes popped wide at seeing Victoria.
“I know it’s wretched timing,” Mama said. “But what can we do? We cannot turn the poor things away. Victoria! Darling.” Mama rushed forward and embraced Victoria, smelling strongly of cooking sherry. Victoria gave her mother an agitated pat in return, keeping her gaze on her uncle, who was seething.
“Not now, Enid,” he growled.
“Wonderful to have you home again, my dear,” she said, ignoring her brother-in-law. “And at such impeccable timing, what with your cousins arriving in town this evening.”
The news jarred Victoria just enough. “Cousins? But I don’t have any cousins.”
Her mother frowned. “What nonsense, of course you have cousins. Granted, you’ve never met them, but that does not justify acting as if the misses Cordelia and Jane Baldwin don’t exist. Their mother died, poor things, and they’re coming to stay with her close friend, Miss Okenshaw. They insist upon visiting us. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Enid!” Jarvis barked.
“Father didn’t have any nieces,” Victoria insisted. “He didn’t have a sister, either.” What was going on?
“Really, Victoria. Has that Aviatory made you forget your family completely?”
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Victoria said bitterly, hating that her mother continuously brought the matter up. It was no secret Lady Digby did not approve of her daughter’s involvement in the Protection Program.
“Though it’s clear you have,” Victoria pressed on. “A woman died today. That woman had a child, Mama. A son. And he will never know his mother.” And my dearest friend has just left for the hospital.
“Enough of this,” Jarvis snapped. “Victoria, tell me about patrol tonight.”
His cold demand came as no surprise. He was the head of the Aviatory, after all. It was his position to organize her protective attempts, a position he’d taken after his own brother, Victoria’s father, had died from the Kreak’s poisonous breath. Victoria simply wished she wasn’t his niece at this point. Let him go hassle someone else for answers.
“It went as planned,” Victoria began. “Our formation rose and blocked the city’s edge. But people were not as anxious to take cover as they should have been. Several of them stared at the Kreak’s arrival instead of running or placing gas masks as they’ve been instructed to do.”
Jarvis grasped his lapel as though it could help him deal with the news in some way. “I see. And that is how the woman . . .”
“The child was running from her.” Victoria fought the tightness in her throat. She wished she could ram away the reemerging memory. “She was trying to help him, to get him inside. But the boy was so small, he probably didn’t understand the danger—”
She pressed her lids closed, wishing she were anywhere but here. The more she spoke, the more her words hollowed her out inside. She hadn’t yet cried over this. She wouldn’t start now.
Jarvis’s eyes widened, but he quickly slid back into his typical controlled calm. Victoria could tell he wasn’t managing as well as he usually did. He was like bubbling water beneath a sheet of ice.
“And Miss Covington?”
He knew. She knew he already knew what had happened. Then why torment her like this?
Victoria clasped her hands together in an attempt to control her own temper. “On her way to the hospital. If we were allowed more freedom,” she said quickly, “if we could avoid such strict formations and use our own judgment, Dahlia would not have been injured.”
His left eye twitched, and his voice rose as he spoke. “That is out of the question, as you well know. You broke protocol, put your crew in danger, and risked your position as head of the Nauts.”
“I broke protocol to save her!” she said, annoyed and catching his words too late. “The monster would have gone after Dahlia again if I hadn’t . . . wait a moment. Risking my position?”
“You heard me.”
“Uncle, I—”
Hands clasped behind his back, he moved to stand near a suit of armor. “Do not think for a twinkling I will allow you to barge in here and lecture me. Especially not when you yourself have questions to answer.”
She, lecture him? She had anticipated this. She should have gone to Rosalind’s. “If you would just let me explain! My maneuvers will work!”
“Your maneuvers are dangerous,” he argued, straightening his jacket. “And it’s clear you aren’t listening to a word I say. Therefore—”
“Uncle.”
“I was going to wait to deliver this information to you at a more convenient time, but I’ve made up my mind on this issue. I’ve told you before, nepotism will hold no sway over my decisions where the Nauts are concerned. The board was waiting for my final verdict, and I’ve just made it.”
Victoria’s confidence shattered. A bead of sweat trickled down her back. “What are you saying? Dahlia was being attacked. I couldn’t hold back and not act! You know the same thing happened to my father. Your own brother—!”
“Victoria Adele Digby, your position as Flying Officer Naut is stripped from you forthwith, until a time when you can demonstrate loyalty to our standards and training—”
“But I did!”
“Decorum!” he barked at her. “Honor, Victoria. Remember your place. This is protocol. Be grateful I haven’t removed you from your squad permanently. I need not remind you that is also within my power. You are not to fly for a period of six weeks, is that understood?”
“Uncle—”
“Is it?”
Her eyes burned. She closed them, fighting the sting of hot tears well
ing there. “Yes, sir.”
“Your mother is eager to have you here. I’m sure she’ll want you to dress for dinner.”
Victoria seethed, searching her brain for some retort, some way to counter him. But it was hopeless. He’d won.
Dinner. Decorum. As though she could sit quietly and eat with them after this.
“Good evening, Commander Digby.” She spat his title like a bad seed. His jaw dropped, but she turned heel and stalked out the door.
Seven
The black keys and their white counterparts stared at Rosalind Baxter, daring her to play them. The clock on the mantel chimed with a light tinkling sound, signaling her designated practice time. But though Papa sat in his study down the hall expecting to hear the sound, Rosalind couldn’t manage to bring her fingers to the harpsicord. Instead, she stared at her hands in her lap.
Evening had descended. Lamplight beamed off the harpsicord’s beautiful, painted wood in her corner of the music room. Three elegant windows curved around the instrument as if in homage—even the tray ceiling above domed upward. The spring green walls spoke of cheerfulness, of rebirth and newness. Usually Rosalind loved this room more than any other in her home. But in this moment the curtains, the floral rugs and potted plants, the welcoming chairs behind her and the large painting on the wall, all were obsolete.
Perhaps it was the sound of the siren, the way it made her feel as if she were in a cage, trapped and unable to assist while so many others risked their lives, including Victoria.
Since Victoria had advanced as a pilot in the Naut Academy at the Chuzzlewit Aviatory, Rosalind barely saw her anymore. She couldn’t fault Victoria for that, though, for her ambition to take life bare-handed. While she missed her friend, every time the siren sounded, Rosalind felt proud to know Victoria had found something she loved doing.
And then there was Oscar Radley, the boy who’d taken music lessons from her own tutor here at Silverton Manor because there wasn’t room in the small apartment above Oscar’s father’s store. The boy who’d snuck glances at her over the harpsicord as she’d plinked on the keys while he’d studied the cello. The boy who’d snuck letters to her beneath the cover she folded down every night to protect the black and white ivories from collecting dust. The boy she’d stolen out to her garden to consort with late at night as a result of those letters, while her father thought she was sleeping.
It didn’t take much effort to remember the exact timbre of Oscar’s voice, the curve of his lips or the shape his hands took as they teased cello strings or sifted through wheat and tobacco in his father’s mercantile shop. If she sat still long enough, she could feel the ghosts of those hands holding her waist, stroking her chin . . .
Of all the memories, one landed in her mind more frequently than any other. Their last evening together, Oscar had snatched her away from the dance into the curtained awning of the ballroom and away from Papa’s prying eyes. He’d held her so tightly. His skin hot and flushed, he’d placed a final kiss on her forehead.
“To pull down for later,” he’d said with an uncertain grin before drawing away, leaving her alone in the small space.
And now a year later, Oscar had returned. Three days ago, in fact. She could scarcely believe it.
A sweet voice broke Rosalind’s wandering thoughts. “Lady Rosalind.”
She blinked away the memory and glanced up at the freckled maid in her black ruffled dress with white flared cuffs standing at the door of the music room.
“Miss Victoria Digby is here to see you.”
Rosalind blinked in surprise. “Really?” She couldn’t help the delight that swelled in her chest. Her father could hardly blame her for welcoming an old friend, could he? Not when it had been so long since the two girls had conversed.
“Thank you, Thomasina. I’ll be right down.”
Rosalind’s soft shoes padded along the carpeted hallway, past numerous doors to rooms that hardly got any use, past vases lush with flowers and inexhaustible paintings lining the walls, and down the main stairwell with its swooping banister. Victoria lingered near the generous front door, holding her cap and goggles in hand and gazing at the tall clock’s swinging pendulum.
Victoria’s amber, almond-shaped eyes lit at the sight of Rosalind descending, but not with delight. It was more like pain. Dark tresses piled haphazardly halfway on her head while the rest dangled down her back as though it’d been recently disheveled. Rosalind’s genuine delight at the sight of her friend fizzled away. Her brows drew together.
“Victoria! Is everything all right?”
Victoria wore her thick, brown battle corset with its golden buckles snapping along her stomach, cinching from her hips to her bust line. The white fabric along her chest and shoulders was torn and sullied. Dirt scuffed the boots climbing to her knees, and what looked like blood smudged along Victoria’s cheek.
“Hello, Roz,” Victoria managed in a small voice. “I know it has been a while, but I thought you might not mind a visit?”
Rosalind longed to ask Victoria what had happened, but she decided instead to stay silent and allow Victoria to tell her at her own pace.
“You know I love having you visit. Please.” She gestured for Victoria to precede her into the parlor. Victoria entered the room and sat in the velvet armchair. Rosalind followed, taking a place on the settee across from her.
“I hear all about your patrols,” she added, hoping to make Victoria feel comfortable. “What an adventurous life you lead.” Her maid stood near the door, and Rosalind nodded, signaling a request for tea.
Victoria’s movements were small. Her head didn’t hang, but it may as well have with as dejected as she looked. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she answered, and then fell silent.
Rosalind frowned. This was most unlike her. There was a time the girls met in this space far less formally. A time they’d sat upon the rug, giggling over boys or blunders their tutors had made. A time they’d laid on their bellies, sharing a tray of tea cakes and reading The Great Spectacle, waiting for the other to finish so they could turn to the next page.
“I heard the siren,” said Rosalind, thinking of the mechanical creature that intermittently rose from its hiding place in the ocean. The wailing siren that announced its attack went straight under her skin every time, pricking fear all over her. She couldn’t imagine flying out to face it, not when she’d been conditioned to apply her gas mask as quickly as possible and make for home. She supposed that was why Victoria’s Naut training had been so important. “And as you are still in uniform, I take it something went wrong?”
Victoria’s head plunged into her hands. “Oh Roz, it’s horrible. I’m sorry to come here like this, but I had nowhere else to go.”
Rosalind moved from her seat to kneel before her friend. “What has happened?”
Rosalind had been certain Victoria was under quite a lot of stress. She imagined how frightening it was, hearing the siren and knowing it was her place to protect the town. She’d wondered if it bothered Victoria at all, to have to drop all and devote her attention to keeping the monster’s fumes at bay. And here it seemed, she’d been right.
Rosalind often wondered why it was young ladies called upon for this solemn duty. Wouldn’t men—husbands, fathers, capable sons—be better suited to the task? It seemed they were needed in the factories and engineering quarters. Young men were needed to work the nearby farms. And that left this task to a few well-selected young ladies.
Victoria took several moments before she answered. “The Kreak attacked this evening. And one of my Nauts was injured.”
Rosalind’s mouth parted. “Goodness. Who was it? Is she okay?”
Victoria sniffed. “It was Dahlia Covington. She has been taken to the hospital in Wolverton. During the attack, another woman died, Roz. I couldn’t do anything about it. After that, Dahlia’s plane was attacked by the Kreak itself. I broke formation i
n an attempt to save her, and now I have been suspended from the squad.”
A tear leaked out of Victoria’s eye at this, one she quickly blinked away.
“Oh dear,” said Rosalind, sorrow filling her. “I know how much that meant to you. Is it permanent?”
Victoria shook her head and stood, pacing along the elegant room. “No, but it seems as though this is to be my lot in life. Charles Merek was lurking outside my dormitory today, and no doubt you’ve heard the gossip that he and my mother are arranging my life away. To have that hanging over me, then losing one of my squad, to watch a woman die and then to have my post taken from me, it’s all too much.”
Her voice broke, and she hung her head, allowing the tears to fall.
Rosalind rose and went to her, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I know I’ve been a terrible friend,” Victoria went on. “I’ve been so busy, I haven’t been to visit you as I ought. But I wonder if I might stay here now?”
Rosalind guided Victoria back to her seat. She waited for Victoria to sit before taking her own place across from her. “Of course you may stay here. If that is what you wish. But . . .”
Victoria sniffed. “I cannot stay at the Aviatory, not as long as I’m suspended. And I refuse to be under the same roof as my uncle. Not with him and my mother so eager to marry me off. Not with my mother welcoming Cordelia and Jane Baldwin at all hours.”
Rosalind paused in her reach for a teacup to offer Victoria. “Who?”
“Oh, that’s right. Didn’t you know I have cousins?”
“Am I supposed to?”
Victoria laughed, though the sound was hollow. “That’s my response, exactly! My mother only just told me of their arrival earlier this evening. Apparently, I have two long-lost cousins who are moving to Chuzzlewit, and I’m to welcome them with open arms.”
“How can you have cousins and not remember them? Are they staying at your home?”
“No,” Victoria said, finally reaching for a cup of tea and taking a sip. “Thank heavens, they’ve received an invitation from a family friend. I’m sorry, Roz. I’m just—I suppose I am at a loss this evening. I apologize.” She set down her teacup, the china shaking so badly it tinkled against the plate.
The Perilous In-Between Page 4
