'That's something I'm looking forward to. I always look forward to a miracle.'
George ignored him. 'But tonight, let's take in a show.'
Aubrey grimaced. He'd been thinking of how he could see Caroline again. Without offending her. Again. 'Why would I want to do that?'
'I've asked Caroline along.'
'A show. Splendid idea, George. What time?'
'YOU'RE SURE SHE SAID SHE'D MEET US THERE?'
The hansom cab ambled along the street toward the theatre district. Aubrey wished that they'd taken some more speedy form of transport. A lightning bolt, for instance.
'No, not at all.'
'What?'
'She said she'd meet me there. I didn't tell her that you were coming.'
'George, Caroline Hepworth isn't a fool. She'll at least suspect that you've invited me as well.'
'She still agreed to come, didn't she? What does that tell you?'
Aubrey stared at his friend without seeing him. His thoughts whirled. Caroline had left for the Arctic with the express purpose of not seeing him, the polar region being a renowned Aubrey-free environment. And yet, here she was back in Albion and after a few days she was already trying to find a way to see him. Or, at least, she wasn't going out of her way to avoid him, which was a great improvement on her project of putting thousands of miles of icecap between her and him.
'Don't jump to conclusions,' George advised. Then he slapped his forehead. 'What am I saying? You've probably leapfrogged a few dozen conclusions while you've been sitting there.'
'Perhaps,' Aubrey allowed.
'Well, don't. Sit back. Relax. Think about how you're not going to make a fool of yourself when you see her.'
'Believe me, George, I'm always thinking that.'
The theatre district was one of Aubrey's favourite parts of the city. While no part of Trinovant lacked life, the theatre district had cultivated its own special variety of it. Not only did the swells mix with the common folk, it appealed to Aubrey because it brought together art, magic and technology to create something wonderful – usually six evening shows a week with a matinee on Sunday. The theatre was tradition, it was story made grand, it was low farce, it was a place to find just about every expression of humanity. He loved it.
They rolled down the hill of Eastheath Street, past the Royal Theatre and the many-pillared mock classical frontage of Miller's Showcase. The streets had grown crowded and the cabby had to argue his way through the pedestrians who spilled out onto the street, waves of them promenading from theatre to theatre in search of a good night out.
They turned the corner into Harkness Street, the main theatre row. Proudly taking up the corner was the Orient, which – to Aubrey's eye – had never looked the slightest bit oriental. The cabby saw a gap in the traffic and urged his horse forward, just as Aubrey's gaze lit on the colourful playbill outside the theatre.
He felt as if he'd been hit on the back of the head with an electric eel.
The face of Dr Mordecai Tremaine filled the playbill.
Of all the faces, the ex-Sorcerer Royal's was the last he'd expect to see on a poster advertising a light opera. The man who had plotted to kill the King, who had kidnapped Sir Darius, who had orchestrated the theft of Gallia's sacred Heart of Gold, all in order to plunge the world into war. He'd haunted Aubrey's thoughts ever since he'd disappeared from Albion.
Dr Tremaine was the greatest magician in the world. His knowledge and his bravado had led him to master arcane areas of magic that others wouldn't dare to contemplate. He achieved the difficult with casual arrogance. Hardly paying attention, he juggled spells that would drive others to distraction.
Aubrey knew that Dr Tremaine was one of Albion's greatest threats. So why is he on a theatre poster? he wondered.
He shook himself and twisted in his seat to see more, but a tall woman in a hat the size of an airship chose that moment to pause in front of the Orient and laugh at her companion's witticism. He grabbed George's arm. 'Did you see that?'
'I certainly did. Dreadful hat, that. Fruit and feathers? Appalling.'
Aubrey hissed with impatience. He hammered on the ceiling of the cab. 'Cabby! Cabby!'
The small hatch opened. The driver's eyes flicked downward for an instant, then flicked back to the swirling street ahead. 'What is it, young sir?'
'Stop here! Now!' The driver grimaced. A ten-pound fare was vanishing in front of him, and he knew it. 'Here, sir? Can't, just yet. Hold on a mo . . .'
George leaned forward. 'Don't worry about it, driver. We have to be at the Russell by eight.'
'Eight? We'll have to get a move on, then.'He snapped a whip that looked more decorative than functional, but the cab lurched forward.
'I'll get out,' Aubrey said. He put his hand on the latch.
'You'll miss Caroline,' George said.
Aubrey froze, then let his hand drop. He sat back in his seat and noticed that his knees were trembling. 'At the Orient. The poster. It was Dr Tremaine.'
'Dr Tremaine?' George's eyebrows rose. 'Is that what this is about? I saw the poster at the Orient. That was for Arturo Spinetti, the singer.'
'Spinetti? Singer?'
'He's the talk of the town, come over from Venezia.' George crossed his arms on his chest and looked satisfied.
'You see, Aubrey, there are other sections of the newspaper apart from the politics section.'
'So it wasn't Dr Tremaine.'
George frowned. 'What a bizarre notion. Spinetti doesn't look anything like Tremaine. You know he's probably still in Holmland, constructing plots and generally making mischief. And even if he wasn't, he wouldn't plaster his face about on a poster.'
Aubrey wasn't convinced, and he had a feeling that something was afoot here. The man he'd seen on the poster was a twin of Dr Tremaine. 'Of course.' His headache was sneaking back and he rubbed his temples wearily.
Aubrey tried to tell himself that he'd made a mistake, that was all, half-glimpsing a poster and linking it with the man who lurked in his thoughts.
He subsided, but doubt niggled at him. Dr Tremaine was brilliant, charismatic and utterly ruthless, but he was – above all – unpredictable. Not in the sense of being capricious or careless, but in the way that his motives were impossible for others to decipher. The fate of nations worried him little – his own purposes were paramount. In this world of international turmoil, he was a wild card.
Aubrey knew that Dr Tremaine was an enemy to Albion. But Aubrey was also honest enough to admit – to himself – that he had some admiration for the man. His passionate, sweeping nature, his many personal accomplishments, the gusto and swagger, as if Tremaine were a bolder, grander, more intense version of humanity.
Aubrey could see how Dr Tremaine gathered followers wherever he went. Not that he cared for them, but they were devoted to him. He was a leader, but a completely different sort of leader from Darius Fitzwilliam.
George thumped on the roof of the cab. 'That's the Russell just ahead, cabby.'
'Right you are, sir,' the cabby said with resignation. Aubrey reflected that it was part of a cabby's lot to be told things they already knew, but when they needed accurate directions to be confronted with total ignorance.
'What is this show we're seeing, George?'
'The Great Manfred. Sleight-of-hand artist.'
'A Holmlander?' Aubrey said with some astonishment.
'We're not at war yet. The Great Manfred's been on tour for over a year, the toast of the Continent.'
'I hate sleight of hand,' Aubrey grumbled. 'All their tricks are just done with magic, you know.'
The cab rolled to a halt. George bounded out. 'Ah, that's where you're wrong,' he said when Aubrey joined him on the crowded pavement. He paid the cabby, who favoured him with a grin before driving off. 'The Great Manfred gives a guarantee that every trick he performs is the result of sheer physical dexterity.'
'Impossible.'
'That's the fun of it. He does the impossible, right before your eyes, with
out any magic at all.'
'If this Manfred –'
'The Great Manfred.'
'If this Great Manfred does all that, I'll be impressed.'
The doors to the theatre were open and a crowd was trying to press through them all at once. 'Wait here,' George said. 'I'll pick up the tickets.'
Aubrey scowled. He stood on the pavement, hands in the pockets of his jacket, and studied the poster, trying not to think about Dr Tremaine.
The Great Manfred was a model Holmlander – tall, well groomed, neat pointed beard, impeccable posture. He wore a dinner jacket that had a decided shortcoming in that cards, doves and coloured scarves seemed to be exploding from its sleeves. Aubrey thought that this would be uncomfortable at best, and markedly inconvenient at worst, but it was what the illustration promised.
'Aubrey. You'll stretch your jacket out of shape like that.'
Aubrey straightened, guiltily, and whipped his hands out of his pockets. 'Hello, Caroline,' he said and all his rehearsed lines vanished from his mind. 'Hello, Caroline,' he repeated.
She stood there, cool and elegant, in the middle of the pavement. Pedestrians swirled around her as if she were an island in a raging torrent.
'I didn't think you'd be interested in sleight of hand, even when the artist is of the calibre of Manfred.'
'The Great Manfred,' Aubrey said.
Caroline studied him for a moment. Her face was thoughtful, but distant. His hopes of an immediate rapprochement shrivelled the longer the pause went on. 'You always did like correcting people,' she said eventually. 'Still, when you're right all of the time, it must be tempting.'
Bad start, Aubrey thought. I've made a very bad start. He considered his options and quickly abandoned thoughts of running away, fainting or claiming that he was, in fact, his own evil twin. 'Sorry,' he said, instead.
Caroline smiled and Aubrey took it like a hard blow to the chest. He was astonished that he didn't actually stagger back a few steps. 'Good,' she said. 'That's an improvement, anyway.'
'Improvement?'
'How quickly you were able to say sorry. When I first met you, it didn't seem to be in your vocabulary.'
'I'm aware of my shortcomings.'
'Another improvement.'
'In fact, it's hard to see past them, sometimes.'
'Oh dear. Now you're starting to sound maudlin. And that's a step backward.'
'Hmm. What about melancholic?'
'No. That sounds like someone who'd loll about under a tree and write bad poetry.'
'Brooding?'
'Ugh. If you're brooding, you belong in a chicken house.'
'Good point. Would you settle for genuinely apologetic and embarrassed for treating you so badly in Lutetia?'
'Boorish, insensitive, manipulative?'
'All that.'
'Scheming, big-headed, arrogant?'
'Yes, yes.'
She studied him. Her eyes were very dark blue and there was no-one else in the entire city. 'I can go on.'
And I'd be quite happy if you did. 'I'm sure you can.'
'I don't want to, not really.' She looked away. 'Do you know that I can't banter with anyone else like this?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'They can't keep up. Or they get confused. Or offended.'
He shrugged. 'Words. The better one can juggle them, the better off one is.'
'I agree. And I enjoy the sparring with you.'
'Ah.'
'That's why I don't think I can have anything to do with you.'
Aubrey actually looked over his shoulder. 'Are you talking to me?'
'Of course.'
'I'm sorry. I thought I was keeping up well, but that last conversational leap was a jump too far.'
'What do you mean?'
'You were saying how much you enjoyed being with me.'
'Talking to you.'
'Which usually entails being in proximity.'
She frowned, then nodded. 'Granted.'
'Which, to my mind, was sounding promising. And then you popped me on the jaw with "I can't have anything to do with you".' Aubrey put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels for a few seconds.
Caroline looked at the sky. 'Why do I feel a sports metaphor coming on?'
'I shan't disappoint you.' He cleared his throat. 'Cricket. It's like being bowled up a series of delightful long hops and then, when you're quite expecting another, getting a searing bumper that takes your head off.'
'There. Feel better now that's out of your system?'
'Much. Thanks.'
Caroline smiled, then frowned, then settled for something in between that made Aubrey's heart ache. 'Do you see what I mean?' she said.
'About not seeing each other? No.'
'About having fun.' She put her hands together. 'But the reality is that I have other things to do in my life. Fun can wait.'
'No. Life should be fun. Life is fun.' Even when you're balanced halfway between life and death? 'Surely there is more to life than fun. Mindless fun.'
'Not mindless fun. Intelligent fun. Thoughtful fun. Complex, thrilling, challenging fun.'
'It sounds to me as if you're addicted to stimulus.'
Aubrey blinked. 'I suppose so. The notion had never occurred to me.' He considered it for a moment. 'There are worse flaws in a human being.'
'Do you know how many human failings can be excused that way? As long as a wicked person can find someone more wicked, he can wave his deeds away by saying, "Well, there are worse. "' Aubrey put his hands together and studied them for a time. They fitted neatly and they'd stopped trembling. 'How did we get here? Talking about the nature of good and evil?'
'We could trace back our conversational steps, if you like, but that's looking backward.'
Aubrey rubbed his chin. Where was George? 'No chaperone tonight?'
Caroline made a face. She obviously intended it to be a grimace, but Aubrey found it delightful. 'Chaperone? Please, Aubrey. We live in modern times, not the dark ages. Why should a young woman need an escort? To watch over me like a sheepdog? What an antiquated custom.'
'Of course. Ridiculous.'
'In fact, we have a speaker at the next meeting of the Eastside Suffragists on this very topic. Would you care to come?'
'Naturally,' he said automatically, as he generally did whenever Caroline requested anything. 'Perhaps we could have dinner afterwards. Or a stroll. Something.'
She frowned. 'It's a serious political meeting, Aubrey, not a rendezvous. I thought you took the cause seriously.'
'I do. I have. I shall.' George, Aubrey thought, now would be a good time to appear. He stood on tiptoes and looked through the doors of the theatre, over the heads of the people crammed into the foyer. Cigar smoke made it difficult to see, and Aubrey knew his jacket would need a good airing when he got home.
'You're looking for George?' Caroline asked.
'He's getting the tickets.' And he's taking his time about it.
'Really? I thought he'd come along with the sole purpose of chatting to that girl over there.'
Aubrey swivelled. Not far away, George was talking to a young blonde woman. She wore long gloves and she held a handbag so tiny that Aubrey couldn't imagine it had any use apart from providing a home for a pair of dormice.
'He's been there for some time,' Caroline said. 'And he's making sure he speaks to her mother, too.'
'That's Jane Evans. Not the mother. That's Mrs Evans. Her husband, Jane's father, is Justice Evans, the judge.'
'You know them?'
'Justice Evans is a friend of my father.' Aubrey paused. 'A proper friend, not a political friend. They knew each other in the army.'
George was nodding at something Mrs Evans had said, but Aubrey could see that it was taking him some effort to stop himself orienting on Jane. It was as if a compass point was trying to stop centring on north.
Aubrey waved. Despite George's focus, he caught the gesture. With some reluctance, he made his apologies to the Evanses and eased
his way through the crowd.
'Hello, Caroline,' he said. 'Nice hat.' He rubbed his hands together. 'Cracking girl, that Jane. Dab hand at croquet.'
'You hate croquet,' Aubrey said. 'You always call it the lazy man's hockey.'
'I may have been hasty in that judgement. Time to reconsider.'
'You have the tickets?'
George looked blank for a moment, then brightened. 'Of course. Good seats, I think.' He plucked them from the inner pocket of his jacket, just as the doors opened to the auditorium.
Aubrey was decidedly ambivalent about sleight of hand. When younger, he'd desperately wanted it to be true. He wanted such deftness to be real instead of simple magic masquerading as prestidigitation. What a world it would be, if a person could make a ball vanish into thin air, just by clever manipulation and misdirection.
But with every sleight-of-hand artist he'd ever seen, the illusion didn't last. He soon saw the spells that were used to make scarves dwindle and disappear, or doves reconstitute themselves inside top hats, or pretty assistants hover in thin air, which was a great disappointment.
He settled in his seat, willing to be deceived but knowing he wouldn't be. The critical part of his brain never slept. It was always ready to squint, mutter and prod him into asking why, or how, or what.
The curtain was down. A four-piece string ensemble played in the pit – something Holmlandish, Aubrey thought, but thankfully it was something danceable rather than one of their galumphingly serious compositions.
Caroline had chosen to sit between George and him, and immediately Aubrey had the Great Armrest Issue to contend with.
In purely economic terms, he knew half the armrest was his. His ticket entitled him to it. In personal terms that could be a good thing. If he took half the armrest, and Caroline took half, his forearm – and elbow – would be close. An altogether satisfactory arrangement from his point of view as it could lead to an accidental touch or two, when he shifted position – which would be only natural.
But what if she wanted more armrest space? The courteous thing would be to concede the entire plush territory to her, for her comfort. Then he could miss out on the nearness.
The possibilities made his head spin.
Word of Honour Page 7
