That Inevitable Victorian Thing

by E. K. Johnston

  “I’m sorry,” Helena said again, much more quietly this time. “I shouldn’t have kept it from you.”

  “How were you supposed to know?” Margaret asked, keeping her voice as gentle as she could. That was one thing her father always did.

  “Well, if I wasn’t lying to you, then I was lying to some other girl,” Helena said.

  “You never promised anything. We only agreed to talk, and I liked that.”

  “I liked it, too.” Helena swallowed the last word in a muffled sob.

  “Then there’s no apology needed.”

  “Do you want to go back to Toronto?” Helena asked. “I can sleep on the chesterfield until you leave. We’ll tell Fanny it’s because I kick.”

  “Of course not. Oh, Helena, I’m not going to stop loving you for something you can’t even help.”

  Helena looked up, surprise writ in every part of her face, and Margaret realized what she’d said. There was no going back now.

  “There’s something else,” Margaret said. “I’ve been keeping secrets, too.”

  Helena didn’t say anything, and Margaret locked eyes with her to be sure Helena was paying attention.

  “My name isn’t Margaret Sandwich,” she said. “Though Margaret is what I am often called.”

  The pieces fell all at once into place in Helena’s mind, her eyes widening.

  “Your High—” Helena started, and Margaret put a hand over her mouth to stop her from finishing the word.

  “You must always call me Margaret.” It was a plea, not an order. “Please.”

  Helena’s breath was hot on her hand as Margaret drew it back to her lap, strangely heartened by the warmth. She wished Helena was sitting beside her, and not below her, but at least she didn’t put her head down.

  “I’m your match,” Helena said. “Not your only one, but I can’t be a mistake if I’m a match for a, well, for you.”

  “Helena, no one is a mistake. You know that as much as I do.”

  “It’s one thing to know it, and another to be it, I think.” Helena had seen children left in her mother’s care, their parents gone, never to be heard from again. She had been brought up to believe that her mother did the Empire’s work teaching them and making sure they reached their fullest potential, but not everyone believed that. Though, if anyone should, it was the Crown Princess. Helena could see the belief of it in Margaret’s face.

  “Not for me,” Margaret said, and was relieved to find that she spoke true in the face of the first real test of her beliefs. “Will you let me help you?”

  “How?” Helena asked.

  “I’ll ask my godfather,” Margaret said. “He can be entirely discreet. And he’ll get answers faster than we will just poking around on the –gnet.”

  “Your godfather,” Helena repeated. “The Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  “He was my godfather before he became that,” Margaret said. “And he’s one of the best programmer-geneticists to come out of the Church of the Empire in generations. He will do it, if I ask him.”

  “Someday you are going to be the Queen of the Empire,” Helena said, as though that detail had finally permeated her thoughts. There was a slightly manic look in her eyes when she said it. “Fanny is going to die.”

  “In the good way, though?” Margaret asked. She liked Fanny, after all.

  “In the best way,” Helena said. “She will tell stories about this summer for the rest of her life.”

  Margaret wanted Helena to tell those stories, too. And she wanted them to be good ones.

  “Helena, will you let me help you?” she asked again, needing permission, no, blessing to interfere. “I promise, I’ll only do what you’re comfortable with, and I’ll stop immediately if you want me to.”

  Helena looked into the fire for a moment, and Margaret thought it might be the longest moment of her life. She leaned forward, wanting to be near enough to give whatever support was required. When Helena turned back, their faces were very close, and Helena was looking directly at her mouth. Helena’s eyes slid up to hers, questioning, and then back down. Margaret answered the only way she could, and leaned forward the rest of the way.

  Margaret had never kissed anyone on the mouth before, and she couldn’t imagine ever wanting to kiss anyone else. Helena’s lips were soft and warm, and for a few seconds, Margaret didn’t care about anything in the world other than them. Then Helena’s hand slid into her hair, and Helena’s tongue traced across her lips. Heat rose between them, not from the fire, but from something else, something that Margaret had read about in books, and never dared hope to find in a marriage made by the Computer for the good of the Empire. With that heat racing through her, she put a hand on Helena’s cheek, as though lips alone weren’t enough to confirm that she was here and they were together in this moment.

  Helena pulled back slowly, and Margaret halfway followed her until she balanced on the edge of the chair and couldn’t reach farther without sliding onto the floor. They sat, inches apart, breathing each other’s air, until Margaret hiccoughed and, to her surprise, laughed.

  “So that’s a yes, then?” she said, not caring that her face must be dark with blush. If her lips looked anything like Helena’s did, they must make quite a picture.

  Helena nodded. “What are we going to do after the window is fixed?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Margaret said. She stood up and extended her hands. Helena caught them easily. “In the meantime, I think you should show me how to clean an oven before Fanny gets back.”

  It was just as well that the oven gave them the excuse to be close, because now that the ice was broken, Margaret found she could barely keep her hands to herself. Everything about Helena fascinated her, and Helena was by no means shy in return. They couldn’t be too adventurous, because Fanny really might walk in on them at any moment, but they could take advantage of the proximity afforded them.

  It took a while to get the oven clean, but Margaret could not stop smiling. Every breath across her neck, every brush across her wrist, was a revelation, and a promise of more to come. She refused to think about Victoria-Margaret, the heir to the Empire, whose aid could be given to Helena, and inhabited only Margaret Sandwich, a nobody who could do whatever she wanted and kiss whomever she wished. There would be time for duty and crushing reality later. Helena was happy now, and Margaret was determined to be happy with her. She would leave what are we going to do? for later.

  They finished with the oven, scraping it quite thoroughly in spite of the constant distraction in each other, and Helena set the sweeping –bot to clean up the rest of the kitchen. Helena made tea, and Margaret watched her move around the room, her every step carefree and quick, like she was dancing with the –bot as she and it crisscrossed the floor. The girls retreated together to the great room, and sat on the rug in front of the fire in a tangle of limbs. There, Margaret learned that there was a spot on Helena’s neck that, when licked, made the other girl gasp most delightfully. She wondered where those spots were on herself, but decided they could find them later.

  Fanny came home, soaked and happy enough with her own afternoon that she didn’t notice the change in their behaviour, or the quick way they moved to sit leaning back against the legs of the chesterfield. They had a quiet dinner, and the rain finally let up in time for a glorious sunset. Margaret wondered whether it would be clear enough for stars tonight, as the idea of kissing Helena under them struck her as quite appealing. She was about to say as much, minus the kissing, of course, as Fanny was present, when Helena’s communication –bot chimed, indicating the arrival of a –gram.

  Helena went to read it, her step as light as it had been since she had come back downstairs after the scene in the kitchen, but something changed immediately when she opened the message. Fanny said nothing, so perhaps it was only their new understanding of each other that gave her in
sight, but Margaret could tell something was wrong. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine what it was.

  “It’s from the big house,” Helena said. She didn’t turn around to look at either Margaret or Fanny. She just read the message out loud, and her voice was very strained. “He wants to know if we want to go fishing, now that the rain’s stopped.”

  Margaret felt like the rug, no, the whole earth had been pulled out from under her. This was the price for an afternoon of loveliness beyond anything she’d ever hoped for, the weight of the reality she’d hoped to forestall. And worse, now Helena would suffer even more because of it. She had wanted to help, and instead she had only made this even more disastrous for the girl for whom friend was no longer a close-enough word.

  Helena turned around, and Margaret saw a flash of pain in her eyes, but also a sort of determination. Whatever happened next, Helena had no regrets. Margaret found that to be comforting, and she needed all the comfort she could find in the face of what she’d done. What they’d done.

  They had, both of them, forgotten entirely about August.

  CHAPTER

  21

  August prepared the Lightfoot very carefully. She was the pride of his family fleet—of the recreational fleet, anyway. The boat was an antique, each part of her lovingly restored by hand, from the engine to the decorative brass trim. If pressed, the joke was, Murray Callaghan would struggle to choose between this boat and any of his children, though he might love his grandchildren more than all of them combined. August had refinished the entire hull last winter, after the vessel had been put into dry dock for the season, and it was that work that had finally convinced his father that August, at the ripe old age of twenty, was responsible enough to pilot her unsupervised.

  He checked the fuel, ran the bilge pump, and performed all the small rituals necessary and not so necessary for starting his father’s beloved old boat. There were no modern additions to the Lightfoot—no –bot nav or fishing sonar—and it was not the most luxurious pleasure boat the family possessed. But when the V8 roared to life, August knew it was the perfect boat to give Margaret a true lake experience, Helena a vaguely romantic outing, and himself the chance to engage in some less-than-aboveboard activities. He felt badly about that last one, but he had come this far, and would have to go further to see the job done.

  The girls were waiting for him on the end of their dock when he brought the Lightfoot down to the point for them. They both wore trousers, and he could smell insect repellent on Helena’s skin as he handed her to her seat. Margaret sat sternward, while Helena took the seat next to his. She was an excellent navigator, and knew the lake at least as well as he did. When they were little, she used to study the maps in his father’s office, saying that just because she was only here for the summer, it didn’t make her less of a local. Her excellent memory took care of the rest.

  “Hello,” he said, once they were both settled. They hadn’t joked or said anything as he helped them in, and had immediately moved as far away from each other as they could, given the circumstances. He hoped they hadn’t quarrelled.

  “Hello, August,” Helena said warmly. She leaned up to kiss his cheek, and he heard Margaret shift behind them.

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked solicitously. He passed Margaret a life jacket, which was only slightly damp.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she said, sliding the jacket over her shoulder. “Only the view is quite different already, and I want to appreciate it.”

  August smiled. The lakes and houses all looked different from a boat, even in the dark. He liked the Muskoka night, with its stars and lights and crickets, not that there were many of the latter once you were out on the lake.

  “It’s too bad you can’t see the boat clearly,” Helena said. Her voice was warm. So they weren’t quarrelling, then. “The Lightfoot is beautiful. I’m surprised August’s father lets him drive it.”

  “I paid for this excursion in sweat and blood, I’ll have you know,” he said. Helena paused halfway through putting on her life jacket and raised an eyebrow. “Or, sweat and varnish, anyway.”

  He opened the throttle as soon as she’d pushed them away from the dock, and they went lazily out into open water. They weren’t in a hurry, and the Lightfoot wasn’t built for speed, anyway. August steered them on a meandering course towards the site where he and Helena usually fished. In theory, he was taking the time to show Margaret the best of the evening lights. In reality, he was making very sure that anyone out on the lake—and certain individuals specifically—knew exactly where they were.

  When they reached the fishing cove, August let Helena slide into the driver’s seat to hold them as steady as possible. She had to basically sit in his lap to do it. It was decidedly close, and even though she didn’t linger, he got the sense that she might have, if they hadn’t had both an audience and his father’s favourite boat to mind.

  He scrambled over the bench where Margaret was sitting, watching the entire process with great interest, and went to the back hatch. This was where the Lightfoot’s lack of modern conveniences made it ideal for August’s final purpose. Unlike the sleek new boats his sisters favoured, which could hold their position with brief pulses from their hydrojets, the Lightfoot relied on a more time-honoured method. Long practice kept August from scuffing the polished wood as he wrestled the anchor, and its special attachment, out of the hold. Looking up quickly to make sure that Helena was occupied, he met Margaret’s eyes by accident. There was nothing for it, he realized. He could only hope that Margaret didn’t know what an anchor was supposed to look like.

  He tossed the whole thing overboard, and thought that the splash it made sounded normal. The anchor carried a bag, attached to the chain by water-soluble ties so that he’d be able to pull up the anchor later and leave the package—and its GPS transmitter—behind. Inside several layers of waterproof wrappings was a large sum of money, large enough for those who found it to consider protecting Callaghan lumber ships in the Great Lakes instead of attacking them.

  Even before August had gone to Toronto and spoken with Admiral Highcastle about the problem, piracy on the Saint Lawrence Seaway had been foremost in his mind. The Trent-Severn, being mostly rivers, canals, and well-populated lakes inside Canadian borders, was safe enough, he thought, but the Great Lakes and the Saint Lawrence were close enough to the American States that the growing anarchy and desperation of the region were spilling over into Empire waters. Lumber was a target cargo, since it was nearly impossible to trace to the source, and because it was badly needed for reconstruction in both Michigan and Ohio. Losing one shipment out of ten was intolerable.

  August ruthlessly quashed all thoughts of business and lawbreaking. There were fish to catch, and friends to entertain. He slumped into the seat beside Margaret, and reached for the fishing tackle, in the big hold. Helena stopped the engine now that they were anchored, and they drifted in silence on their fading wake for a few moments.

  “Have you ever been fishing before, Margaret?” August said. “I imagine there’s excellent fishing in Cornwall.”

  Both girls paused in their movements, Helena turning so that she could see better, and Margaret reaching for the rod August was holding out towards her. They were oddly in concert, he thought, but then their tableau broke, and he wondered whether he was starting to lose his grip on what details mattered, and what details might get him arrested for embezzlement and engaging in illegal trade with American pirates.

  “No,” Margaret said, nearly stuttering over the word, but not quite. “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “It’s easy enough,” August said. “Casting is all in the wrist, but once you’ve got that down, fishing is mostly about patience.”

  “And the willingness to be very, very bored,” Helena said.

  “Helena’s father believes that talking scares the bites away,” August said, forcing a smile.

  He passed H
elena the rod she favoured, and got the worms out. Helena wasn’t the least bit squeamish, and had been baiting her own hooks since August could remember, but he was prepared to help Margaret if she needed it.

  Margaret surprised him, though, and only watched to see how Helena did it before threading her worm as delicately as any of his sisters might have managed it. She watched Helena cast as well, her eyes following the movements with attention to every detail of them. That she could not so easily replicate, but she did manage to get her float, hook, and bait over the side without snagging anyone or dropping the worm, and that wasn’t bad for a beginner. August’s cast sailed out, and they settled in to wait.

  Usually, he and Helena would have talked. August expected as much now and was surprised when Helena made no effort to draw either him or Margaret into conversation. He didn’t want to start something, in case it ventured into business. He also didn’t wish to press Margaret for details about life in England if she did not wish to give them. She had probably had enough of telling people about herself in the last few weeks, with all the people she’d met. Helena’s silence, though, made him nervous. She was different since her debut—not in a bad way, he was quick to admit. But she was different and he didn’t know why. There hadn’t been a lot of things he didn’t know about her before.

  Helena reeled in her line even though it had barely been ten minutes since she cast it. She set aside her pole carefully and moved into the backseat, sitting between August and Margaret on the bench.

  “Are you cold?” he asked. It was clouding over, the stars gradually obliterated by a greater dark.

  “Not anymore,” she said, and put her head on his shoulder. “I’m just not in much of a fishing mood.”

  He was selfishly glad. It would take thirty minutes for the water to dissolve the ties that held the bribe money to the anchor, and they couldn’t leave before then. Also, he liked having Helena close.