Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “Utterly romantic,” sighed Franny.

  There was a clerk standing nearby, a small, round woman with a large red plume in her hair. There was a strange expression on her face now, and Ivy cursed the turn of events. Scandal fed on lesser things, she knew.

  “Well, I am not romantic, and it’s not at all what you think. Penny Dreadful wears breeches.” She fished the boots from the floor, turned them over in her hands. “I can wear these with skirts, you know . . .”

  “Oh yes,” said Fanny. “They will look simply smashing with skirts.”

  “So smashing.”

  “And the land around the Hall is quite hilly, so fine boots are in order . . .”

  “Oh, yes, darling. Boots are capital for rough country.”

  “Capital. Capital.”

  She could feel the expectant gazes of the sisters, the scandalous stare of the shop clerk.

  “But I would hate to give anyone the wrong idea, so I think I must decline.” She handed the boots back to the clerk, whose expression fell like a stone. “Thank you, though. They are very fine. I’m sure I could reach quite high in them.”

  She turned to the sisters.

  “Is there a place we can go for dinner? I have some delicate questions I need to ask.”

  “Ah, dinner and delicate questions! What a marvellously delicious duo!”

  Fanny took Ivy by one arm whilst Franny took the other and together they bustled out the door of Annie’s Apparel, leaving the very fine boots behind with the scandal.

  THE AIRSHIP GLIDED over the landscape of the northern counties like a ghost, its propellers designed into silence by the Royal Academy Corps of Airships Engineers. It was not the Royal Carolina. No, she was a simple Royal Airship Frigate with the name HMAS Carysfort. She was a thirty-two-gun Comus-class Corsair cruiser, one of the four that covered the Carolina, and her canvas was black and gold. Against the darkening sky, she looked like an orca.

  They leaned over the railing of the ship’s forecastle, breathing in deeply the evening sky. It was cold but not raining, perfect for enjoying a gentlemanly smoke and a drink. But neither was a smoker, so they more than made up for it in drink and the conversation had wandered from the state of the German military to career paths, from the ethical dilemma of fox hunting to family dynamics. Of all the topics, that of family was the most unsettling.

  “Well, yes, I suppose I will write May but honestly, I quite enjoy the company of Helene. Have you met Helene, Laury?”

  “No, I’m afraid I have not.”

  “She is a fine girl, altogether fine.” The Duke sighed, reached a long white hand far out over the railing as if trying to catch a cloud. “And I’m quite certain I could do worse. But after watching my parents bobble back and forth all these years, I would be quite satisfied never to marry at all.”

  “Women are a riddle that I am in no great hurry to solve.” Sebastien raised a glass to his lips. “By the way, you still have one hovering over you like a black cloud.”

  “She’s dead, the woman I gave this to,” said the Duke, twisting the brass ring on his finger. “I met her at a brothel in Whitechapel. I treated her kindly and paid her well, but I didn’t kill her, Laury, I swear. I do hope she doesn’t hold me responsible.”

  “If she did, I’d see her clearly and then I’d be forced to push you over the side of the airship. I’d get the gallows for sure.”

  “Grandmummie’s justice all around . . .”

  They were quiet for a while longer, content with the cold air and the warm Scotch.

  “How much do you know about the Ghost Club, Laury?”

  “I try to keep myself dissociated.”

  “This is a messy complicated business that Remy has got himself into, what with Williams and the boys and the girls and then there’s all the chaos at Bedlam. Damn parliament, I say. Damn all politics, wot?” The Duke looked at him from the corner of his eye. “Are you certain you want to wade into it? You won’t come out clean, you know. If you come out at all.”

  Sebastien sighed, studied the lights far below.

  “The Club was my father’s business, and I’ve tried to steer as clear as I possibly could. I had hoped Christien would do as well. But in all honesty, it’s my fault, so it should be I who deals with them, not Christien.”

  “Remy’s a clever fellow. He’ll do what needs be done.” The Duke sighed. “What do you think of his little woman?”

  “I don’t know a bloody thing about women, so I’m afraid I can’t comment.” He lifted the Scotch to his lips. “If she were a horse, a dog, or a spirit, it would be a different story.”

  “Have you never been to a brothel, Laury?”

  “No, Eddy. Can’t say as I have.”

  “Well then, I’m quite certain you will need to after Sandringham.” The Duke grinned a lazy grin. “I must admit I find them very exciting places. They are like theatre—the singing and the drama, the laughter, the music. The sheer crush of humanity—men and women together searching desperately for the promise, the illusion, of love. Yes, I must admit I like them very much indeed.”

  He turned his heavy-lidded eyes toward Sebastien, blinked slowly. “Is that so terribly scandalous, Laury?”

  “Well, for a man of your station, I would think it scandalous, yes.”

  “My entire life is a scandal, Laury. I fear there is nothing I can do that would be acceptable either to my family or to the British people.”

  “Responsibility is a bugger, Eddy.”

  The Duke sighed, leaned back over the railing. Lights were visible far below, from a city or large town. They were over Keilber Forest now, had spied glimpses of Hadrian’s Wall, so likely it was the city of Carlisle. They were too far west for it to be Newcastle, and the smell of coal and sulfur from factories filled the air.

  “You must meet my Erica, Laury. You will like her, no matter what Grandmummie says.”

  “Is she another one of your bawdyhouse women, Eddy?”

  “No, no! She is the Club’s Analytical Engine. Engine for Rational Input, Computation, and Analysis. ERICA. I could watch the mathematicians work for hours, punching in the data, hearing her shuttles hum and fly. I believe I could truly be happy if I could work there for the rest of my life.”

  “And who would be king?”

  “Why George, naturally. He would make a splendid king. The people would love him and leave me well enough alone. I would enjoy myself at the Club during the day and in brothels at night. What a blissful thought.”

  “Life is wondrous strange,” said Sebastien.

  The Duke raised his glass. “To Life.”

  He did the same. “To Life.”

  And they drank down the last of the fine Macallen Scotch, dropped the glasses over the side, and took their conversation inside the cabin for the rest of the night.

  The Cumbrian Steam Quarterly

  September 24, 1888

  Mr. Yancy Greengrass of 21 Grovenshire Road was driving home from a drink with his mates when something shattered on the top of his four-wheeled steamcar. According to witnesses, Mr. Greengrass shrieked and flung his arms in the air, leading the steamcar to swerve, teeter, and ultimately tip over into the gutter of Penninewalk Way.

  He was not injured but his nerves sustained a fright, and the steamcar itself sustained considerable damage. There is a call to look into the compatibility of four-wheeled steamcars and our northern roads. Of the object which caused the unfortunate Mr. Greengrass to swerve, there is no evidence, although police are suspecting debris from a German airship that was reported seen doing reconnaissance over the district.

  The War Office has declined to comment, and police are continuing to investigate.

  THE LANCASTER MEWS was not quite pub, not quite tea room, and they picked for themselves a table with a view of the castle lights through the window. Ivy dined on chicken pie with leeks, Fanny on pork tart and beans, and Franny had tucked into something called “lasagna.” It was apparently Italian and rather like a tomato casserol
e. Ivy watched with fascination as the woman put away the entire dish and still had room for gooseberry crumble.

  There were very few patrons in the establishment, so they sat drinking tea as Fanny held forth on fashion, footwear, and, of course, family.

  “And so, I simply had to tell the poor boy, ‘Ninny, my dear’—his name is Ninian, you know. Ninian Liddell. I called him ‘Liddell Ninny!’” She sniffed. “So I said, ‘Ninny dear boy, never would any good Helmsly-Wimpoll woman consent to giving her hand to such an union,’ so I bid him adieu.”

  She sniffed once more, and raised her tea. “He still pines for me, I fear. Such is the effect of a Helmsly-Wimpoll woman. I do drop him a letter from time to time, however. It is the socially acceptable thing to do . . .”

  “More crumble!” called Franny.

  “I’m quite certain that if he could find himself some occupation more suitable to my disposition, I would perhaps entertain the thought . . .”

  Ivy smiled. “And what is his occupation, Fanny?”

  “Mathematician. More precisely, a logarithm writer for the Newcastle A.E. Society.”

  “Well then, he must be very intelligent. Analytical Engines are all the rage in London.”

  “But darling,” she sniffed. “There is simply no future in computing machines. No future at all.”

  “Hmm,” said Ivy.

  “So, what are these ‘delicate’ questions?” Fanny leaned forward, dropped a hand on Ivy’s sleeve. “Have you reconsidered about your mother, dearest? Do you know what the Czech has been doing to her?”

  “That was good crumble,” said Franny.

  Ivy took a deep breath. That night had been almost a week ago. It was hard to know what was real and what she had imagined. Sebastien had been gone for days now, and she realized that Lasingstoke without the Mad Lord and his pack of happy dogs was a quiet place indeed. “We did go up last week, but I didn’t get the chance to see her . . .”

  “We, dearest?”

  “Nasty Czech,” said Franny.

  Fanny looked Ivy in the eye. “We, dearest darling?”

  She had to choose her words carefully. “Sebastien and I. We took a carriage to the Abbey, but we were called back before we could see her.”

  “Were you wearing your breeches?”

  “No!” Ivy laughed. “No, I’ve not worn them yet. I . . . I’ve not been riding . . .”

  Fanny sat back, watched her carefully.

  “There is more that you are not telling me, dearest. But not to worry. I never pry into affairs of the heart.”

  She sipped her tea, gazed out the dark window, and Franny happily began working on her second dish of crumble.

  Ivy glanced around the tea shop. It was late, the place was almost empty, and the questions had been eating at her like Franny devouring her crumble. Her heart thudded in her chest.

  “Fanny . . .”

  “Dearest?”

  “You know everything about the families in the district, yes?”

  “Absolutely everything, dearest.” Her eyes flashed. “You haven’t asked, have you?”

  “Well, I tried . . .” Ivy sighed. “Honestly, I’m afraid to ask. Christien has gone back to London, Sebastien’s gone off to Balmoral—”

  Fanny slapped a hand on the table, causing the serving girl to jump and Franny to fling a spoonful of crumble into her tea.

  “I knew it! I knew it! I was right, wasn’t I, Franny?”

  “You’re always right, Fanny. About what?”

  “Why, about the airships!” She leaned forward. “Edward Prince of Wales did bring his airship by Lasingstoke, didn’t he dearest? Sebastien de Lacey’s gone to Balmoral with Victoria!”

  “With Victoria Imperatrix?”

  Ivy sighed. Honestly, why could she never keep her mouth shut?

  “Yes, Fanny. You are quite right. The de Lacey family is on friendly terms with the royals.”

  “Mm hm,” said Fanny with triumph. “A Helmsly-Wimpoll woman has a nose for such things.”

  And suddenly, she leaned in so close that she almost touched Ivy’s forehead with her own.

  “He killed her, dearest. Cut her into a hundred pieces in their very bed.”

  “Who did?” whispered Ivy. “Who killed her? Who ‘her?’”

  “Jane Penteny of Eccelston, dearest. Christien and Sebastien’s mother. It was rumoured she was having a love affair with another man and in fact, that she was pregnant with his child. So Renaud Jacobe killed her with a hunting knife and cut out her womb and her heart. He was a member of the Ghost Club, you know. A ghost hunter. Drove him mad.”

  “Quite mad,” said Franny.

  “It’s the curse, dearest. Renaud Jacobe killed his wife, because his father killed his wife, because his father killed his wife. No one wants to marry poor Sebastien because of the curse.” She gazed out the window. “And of course, because he’s mad . . .”

  “That-that’s terrible,” said Ivy. “Is this common knowledge?”

  “That he’s mad? Of course it is, dearest.”

  “No, no, Fanny. The way his parents died. How do you know this?”

  “My mother is friend to the cook of the Hasting family’s farrier’s aunt. I have it on good authority, and a Helmsly-Wimpoll woman is never wrong.”

  “Oh my . . .”

  “But that’s not all, dearest,” said Fanny.

  “There’s more?” whimpered Ivy.

  “The boys saw it all, they did. They had been fighting. Apparently, Sebastien Laurent was a terrible ruffian and little Christien Jeremie was running in to tattle and they saw their mother in a bloody bed, her heart in their father’s hand.”

  Ivy felt sick inside.

  “But there’s more,” continued Fanny. “Sebastien Laurent, being the ruffian that he was, tried to stop his father. He rushed him, trying to hit him with his little fists. Renaud Jacobe would have absolutely none of it, but Sebastien Laurent wouldn’t stop, so Renaud picked the boy up and threw him from the third-story window. Right out the window! He was dead to the world for weeks.”

  She sniffed, looked out at the Castle. “He was at Lonsdale for a good year, I believe, before he even uttered a word. He was, what Franny? Ten? Eleven?”

  “Ten.”

  Ivy sat, dazed and senseless. It was worse that she could have imagined. Worse than anyone could imagine. Fanny continued.

  “When Renaud Jacobe came to his senses and saw what he’d done, he killed himself. Blew his head right off in front of young Christien Jeremie. It’s quite amazing that your Christien is as sane as he is. Sweet, sweet boy.”

  “So sweet.”

  “At least,” sniffed Fanny. “That’s the tale from Mother’s friend’s cook’s farrier’s aunt. But why wouldn’t it be true? No one would lie about something like that, would they?”

  They spent the rest of the evening drinking tea and making small talk before heading back to Annie’s Apparel just before closing, where Ivy Savage bought herself a pair of very fine boots in spite of the potential for scandal.

  They left the ghosts of the Castle for another visit.

  Chapter 20

  Of Radioactivity, a Clockwork Pistol,

  and Broken Spectacles in Church

  “YOU WHAT?”

  Christien sighed. “I gave it to Ivy, sir, when I went up to visit.”

  Williams glared at him, tightened his grim mouth. “That was not a wise thing to do, boy. She is an impetuous girl.”

  Christien looked down at the black and white tiled floor. “All I know is that I have not had a headache in days, sir. I am convinced that thing is detrimental to my health.”

  “And so you gave it to your fiancée?” came another voice, and they turned to see the figure of Dr. William Crookes, chemist and physicist with the Royal College of Chemistry. His hair and beard were snowy white and his eyes shone out from under bushy brows. “A radioactive device that gives you headaches and causes you to lose entire days at a time, you decide to give to the woman who wil
l one day bear your children? What a colossal act of love and chivalry.”

  “Radioactive?” gasped Christien.

  “Oh most certainly,” said Crookes. “What did you think it was, my boy? A pocket watch?”

  “I didn’t know what it was, sir. All my attempts to discover its nature were met with deflection.”

  “As good a response as any, under the circumstances. It is a powder keg of atomical and parapsychical energy. I sincerely hope she does not explode.”

  “Explode?”

  “A joke, boy. Sit down, sit down. You are far too pretty to fret.”

  They were in one of the many laboratories of Dr. Crookes at his home in Kensington. It was a conservatory almost entirely made of paned glass and containing hundreds of species of tropical plants. There were scientific instruments amongst the greenery; pots of rich black earth spilled over magnifying lenses and microscopes. Small birds flitted between potted palms and telescopes. It was also humid inside this greenhouse lab and it smelled of oranges. As Christien sank into a wicker chair, he wished he could drip away like the condensation streaking down the windows.

  “My concern,” began Williams, “is what will happen once Sebastien de Lacey sees the device at Lasingstoke? Will he know what it is? Will he take it to the War Office? God forbid it fall into the hands of Arvin Frankow!”

  “We don’t even know how to use it, Jack. Frankow will not either. No, I am by far the one most suited to uncover its atomical and parapsychical properties. My lab upstairs is equipped to both investigate and contain, if necessary.”

  Christien sat forward now. “But what does it do, sir? And if it is so damned important, why did my father leave it to me? Why not will it to the Club and be done with it?”

  Both Williams and Crookes exchanged glances. Crookes leaned back in his chair.

  “Your father hoarded his treasures like a dragon hoards gold. From what we can gather, it was one of three lockets manufactured two hundred years ago, by some damned metallurgical Frenchie hired by Ashmole. You’ve heard of Elias Ashmole, certainly?”