A Fistful of Dust

by Sharon Bidwell

  If he meant to suggest a lady should not be gallivanting about the universe, he’d find it a matter of dissension when it came to Annabelle…or so Nathaniel thought.

  “The young lady will surely listen to such good counsel as yours.” Annabelle’s very words indicated how strongly she objected to the other woman’s inclusion, but why, Nathaniel could not begin to guess. They had no time for debate, interrupted by a door opening and a swish of skirts.

  Thomas, the governor-general’s aide and secretary, appeared on the young lady’s heels. “My apologies, sir.” His flustered tone did not match his expression, making Nathaniel frown.

  “Do not apologise for me!” A shrill voice snapped out. The newcomer looked upon them as though assessing rabble, although he could well appreciate her ire if she were the fiancée of the missing man. Her attitude only seemed to falter when she set sight of Annabelle, but she quickly regained her composure. Surely, the arrival of a second outspoken female would cause Routledge to bluster even more.

  It did not. If anything, the governor-general seemed to puff up with something similar to… Not pride. More like triumph.

  Fools. Sir Henry’s posting had been one intended to make use of his years of military experience, one that made it possible to overlook certain…misdemeanours of manipulation as well as dalliances with the fairer sex. Nathaniel didn’t believe or suspect Routledge guilty of a casual or intimate relationship with this young lady; however, that did not mean Routledge was beyond using her obvious charms to his own advantage in other ways. Routledge was about to make fools of them all.

  “I truly do understand your reluctance to help those you do not know, but I implore you.” The young lady wrung her hands. “Will you not help one of Her Majesty’s subjects in the most heartrending pursuit trying to ascertain what has happened to the man she loves?”

  In reply, Arnaud studied the floor. Folkard squared his shoulders. Annabelle rolled her eyes. Nathaniel watched the entertainment.

  “Forgive me…Miss Highmore, I presume?” Annabelle turned to look at Routledge. “Sir. With respect, I must protest that I do not appreciate being ambushed in this manner.”

  Tu tu tu noises erupted from Sir Henry’s throat. Before he could recover, Folkard spoke. “You must appreciate what Miss Somerset is trying to say. I suggest the presence of Miss Highmore appears to be somewhat contrived.” So Nathaniel wasn’t the only one thinking that. “However.”

  “Sir! The Realm does not leave a man behind!” Routledge cut in.

  “However,” Folkard resumed, “we will help.” If he noticed the others were surprised, he did not show it. “I take it as we are restocking supplies there is time for us to rest up and ascertain the details a little later? Over dinner?”

  “To be sure, to be sure.”

  “Then, we will retire to freshen ourselves and rest before we dine.” Folkard’s sweeping gaze seemed to indicate it was time for them all to leave the room.

  As they stood to follow Folkard’s stride, the lady moved aside and in her movements came face…to chest with Nathaniel. A small gasp left her before her gaze wandered, coming to rest on his face. Maybe his height alarmed her, but whatever caused her to startle brought a most peculiar expression to Annabelle’s mien. At least the encounter provided her with merriment for the first time in weeks.

  As to…this lady, her hair appeared to be only slightly paler than her skin and she was waif-like to the point where a single breath might blow her out of existence. That she had followed her missing fiancé spoke of some hidden fortitude, perhaps, but were times changing so much that no woman would remain at home?

  As they trouped out, Nathaniel replied to Arnaud’s raised eyebrow. “The goose is not cooked; however, it is wild. The phrase you sought was a wild goose chase, and it seems that we are about to embark on one.”

  “Not necessarily so,” Folkard replied, glancing back, a look they had come to recognise coming into his eyes. “Not necessarily so.” He somehow managed to sound simultaneously a little excited, and ill at ease. The captain strode off leaving Annabelle, Nathaniel and Arnaud to blink at his departing back.

  Chapter Two

  “In Which All Meet the Interlopers”

  1.

  “MY FATHER HAS always considered black hair on a woman to be rather unseemly. I have to say I cannot agree with him. Although I have never seen a woman with hair as black as yours, until now.”

  Taking a deep breath, Annabelle suppressed a sigh. Despite Annabelle speaking very few words to her, Elizabeth Highmore seemed to have latched on as if they were sisters at heart purely from the anatomical fact of being the same sex. They could not have been more unalike.

  She could not deny that she had tried to formulate all sorts of reasons why Elizabeth should not join the expedition, all of which failed for she could think of few ways to argue without cutting herself out of the trip as well.

  True, the mere slip of a girl had shown some…doughtiness coming all the way from Earth in pursuit of her fiancé, but she seemed to carry the act of doing so as if deserving of martyrdom. To make the situation more unpleasant, she came out with such asinine remarks Annabelle struggled to determine whether the girl was a simpleton or simply pretended to be so that she could enjoy making veiled insults. “I believe there is some parlance in certain circles that blondes are dumb,” Annabelle quipped to test either theory.

  Elizabeth coloured. “I…meant a compliment. I apologise. I haven’t…travelled before, and I am unaccustomed to making new acquaintances.”

  “Well, you are certainly travelling now.”

  Annabelle had no wish to be lumbered with caring for a weak woman…or stand by watching the men dote on her. One of those sentiments, she understood; the other she did not. She had no need for any man other than her George to dote on her, so she had no reason to care if others positively lavished affection on Elizabeth. Not that there seemed to be much chance of that. Folkard was too professional to do so, and had only a mind for his dear Charlotte, and as for Nathaniel and Arnaud…no need to worry there. No, if Elizabeth garnered any tenderness it would have to be from her brother when he arrived.

  Inwardly, Annabelle sighed. Since her heavenly encounter, be it reality or a dream, she had begun to relish the new found tranquillity, the inner serenity to accept all that had come to pass. Her arrival on Mars had tilted the balance, upset her equilibrium. A situation made worse since her acquaintance with Elizabeth especially owing to the cramped conditions meaning she would have to bunk with her.

  Annabelle felt…less whole. Almost as if this younger, slighter, sillier woman was in some ways better by the mere fact of having two legs, which made Annabelle the idiotic one. It wasn’t as if Elizabeth was the first woman she’d spent time with since the loss of her appendage, yet, this was Mars…where the first sight of a canal had caused memories to come flooding back brightly coloured and alive with pain. Still, there had been many good things to take account of during her first visit. A feeling of fellowship and acts of loyalty. She had endured. Nathaniel should feel some pride in that, and it stood to reason a little pride in her survival held sway. What was pain when weighed against the prospect of heaven? The thought eased her strange agitation

  “I heard tell you lost a friend here.”

  For a moment, Annabelle thought Elizabeth referred to her severed leg. A limb was an “old friend” was it not? “Yes. Kak’hamish is sorely missed.”

  “Your friend was a Martian?”

  “Most assuredly. I do hope that you and your brother are not the type to judge others by the detail of their birth in deference to whom they are at heart as displayed by their actions. If it were not for Kak’hamish, I would be dead. Nathaniel, too, in all probability. I owe that Martian a great debt and only wish I could…” She hesitated, aware her words were going to sound blasphemous, but enjoying the prospect of shocking Elizabeth, she said them anyway. “Resurrect the dead.”

  “I do believe you attempt to alarm me.” Elizab
eth raised her head defiantly. “I will not be quelled.”

  “Pity then that you were quelled in front of Sir Henry. All we requested was intelligence pertinent to this journey.”

  “And my brother shall answer your questions, I am sure.” Elizabeth clasped her hands in front of her. “Can we not begin again? When I heard another woman would be present I had hoped to find a companion with a like-minded heart.”

  “Perhaps if you cease that wretched hand-wringing we will be more like-minded.”

  Undeterred or covering it well, Elizabeth continued. “I admit I have never understood the desire for adventuring until now. It quite fires the blood.”

  “You wish an adventure? While your fiancé is missing?” It was difficult to tell what laced her voice with more venom, sarcasm or incredulity.

  “My Henry is an adventurer at heart and I hope this trip will help me understand him.”

  Annabelle took a step in what she hoped was an imperious manner. “I would not be marrying a man I did not understand. And have you not heard the phrase to be careful what you wish for?”

  Turning, Annabelle left Elizabeth where she stood. She was not heartless and on some level wanted to offer comfort, but really, the woman had crossed space to the Red Planet and acted as if they were out on a picnic. Experience had taught Annabelle that to be in the aether was no Sunday afternoon outing. The girl showed spirit but that would only help her so far. She had better learn quickly. For her own sake.

  2.

  ARNAUD PRACTICED THE British stiff-upper lip. He was not agitated with the prospect of unexpected adventure, inhospitable landscapes, or impossible creatures, but of entertaining an interloper.

  “One more hand to the plough,” Annabelle had said, though with some sarcasm. Then, more subdued, “You concern yourself too greatly with inconsequence.”

  She had sounded troubled, but he’d been too preoccupied with her phrasing to consider her feelings. Being bullied wasn’t of little consequence in Arnaud’s book. Pulling strings just… Well, it wasn’t done in polite circles…or so he could imagine Nathaniel saying, although after voicing his initial doubts, Nathaniel had remained silent on the subject. Lately, life contained too many shades of grey. Arnaud could forgive Sir Henry for a controversial act of kindness. Nevertheless, they were all as unhappy with this arrangement as he was, with the possible exception of Folkard.

  The man still hadn’t fully explained his sudden insistence that they visit Phobos, although he didn’t entirely need to. He clearly linked the orbit of Phobos with some fluctuation in his sensing of the minerals, and besides had they not headed towards Mars at the urging of the Heart? Had not Nathaniel suggested to Folkard at the time that perhaps their destination may have been Phobos, and not Mars as would seem the obvious option? When one was not privilege to the feeling, it was difficult to question the man who had become nothing short of their divining rod. More worrisome than that, Arnaud wagered, something troubled Folkard to a greater extent than usual, although being plagued with intermittent signals should be enough to explain anyone’s tight-lipped silence. Still, if Folkard felt unwell or distressed they needed to know.

  “You may wait within, Doctor. There’s no need for us all to be pacing the gangway.”

  Folkard’s dismissal annoyed him, but not much. Arnaud cleared his throat. “I would not be so ungallant as not to attend.”

  “For sure.” The unexpected sound of Annabelle’s voice to his right almost made him jump, her remark striking him as a jibe. Steeling his resolve, Arnaud took a breath. Emotions fluctuating, he allowed a questionable sentiment to stir within. Although Annabelle’s outspoken ways often frustrated Nathaniel, Arnaud could not recall personally feeling this annoyed with her. What was wrong with him?

  “My brother is overdue?”

  Elizabeth Highmore was so slight she moved into the gap separating Arnaud and Annabelle with ease.

  “That he is, Miss Highmore,” Folkard replied after giving her an assessing and sympathetic glance as they all moved into the common room.

  “The…Highlands? They are…dangerous?”

  “Astusapes Highlands. A series of abrupt mesas, what the Martians call kraags, usually inhabited by High Martians.” Arnaud supplied a simplified explanation.

  “What are High Martians?”

  “Think apes,” Folkard injected. “With grasping hands and feet.”

  “Oh! They sound intelligent and important.”

  “With wings. The title is not one of respect.”

  “Wings?” This time she looked up at the ceiling as if she could see right through the ship. “They can fly?”

  “That they can, Miss Highmore,” Folkard replied.

  “How wonderful! Will we meet one of these beasts?”

  “Not if we are fortunate. I fear you would not find them the most pleasant to gaze upon, and their behaviour can be nothing more than barbaric, although they are not beasts in the manner you mean.”

  “So they are bad?”

  Arnaud caught himself about to shake his head. Had any of them ever been so innocent? To hear Elizabeth talk was almost painful. Sharing a glance with Annabelle, he saw that she had noticed. When Annabelle spoke, she sounded mournful.

  “Good. Bad. These things can often be subjective, especially on Mars.”

  A frown creased that fair and dainty brow. “I shall have to take your word for it.”

  “Indeed.” For an instant, Arnaud believed Annabelle teased the unfortunate girl, but the expression on her face did not match her tone.

  Of course, if Highmore did not make it back it would solve some of their problems.

  Arnaud felt himself grow pale. If anyone were privy to his thoughts, he dare not consider what they would rightly think of him. What was wrong with him? It was not like him to contemplate harm to another. To do so for the mere misdemeanour of causing an inconvenience was more than criminal. If to err were human, he would atone for such heinous thoughts, be they entirely too human.

  3.

  “CORPORAL WINSTON WHITLOCK, Royal Marine Light Infantry, at your service, ma’am.” The young man saluted the gathering. For Elizabeth, he bowed.

  “Nice to see you again, Whitlock,” Elizabeth said. Addressing the others, she explained. “The Whitlocks have served our family for several generations. His father looks after our horses. Winston is the first to join the army. When I and my brother came to Mars, we made a request to the right departments that Whitlock attend us.”

  A polite silence ensued, one in which everyone but Elizabeth was clearly thinking how that type of behaviour fitted what they had heard of Joseph Highmore. Even Whitlock seemed to understand as his gaze flicked over the assembly, his expression a little apologetic, but grey eyes twinkling. “My family have always had the honour of serving the Highmores, and I naturally jumped at the chance to come to Mars, sirs.” Whitlock pronounced it, sahs.

  “Of course.” Annabelle decided she would be gracious. His being here was hardly his fault and, indeed, she would have “jumped” at the chance in his position.

  “So you are the instigator of this venture?” Nathaniel nodded to Whitlock.

  “Not so, Profess-sah.” This time Annabelle almost shuddered. “More like the mediator.” Mead-de-hate-tah.

  Nathaniel blinked, maybe at the way the corporal spoke. His inflections did take some getting used to. As for his doing as he was told, yes, that would be right. A wave of tiredness swept over Annabelle at the way everything…worked. A chain of command was necessary but too many seemed to take advantage of it. If the smile on Whitlock’s face was anything to go by, he was very happy to be here, but it didn’t sit entirely well with her. From what other important duties had the Highmore’s taken him? True, they hoped to save two men’s lives. Henry Barnsdale-Stevens had been travelling with his valet, but what if owing to Whitlock’s absence one such as her precious George died instead? Yet if it were George in need of rescue… A sudden wave of insight as to how Elizabeth must be feeling made A
nnabelle feel ashamed of her earlier snappishness. Sir Henry was right. At the very least, one always tried not to leave a man behind.

  When Whitlock last saw him, Joseph Highmore had been in heavy discussion with one Hat’Kaashteek at one of the mesas known in the Koline language as kraggs. Laboriously excavated internal shafts etched out by slaves provided living quarters and storage as well as numerous secret passages. This particular one had been captured by the Canal Martians and Highmore had followed his friend’s trail there many days ago.

  Whitlock had returned in advance of Highmore to Syrtis Major with instructions to procure Esmeralda 2, which Highmore had known was en route owing to conversations with Sir Henry. To expedite matters, the Highmores had signed the Official Secrets Act owing to Routledge predetermining Folkard’s requirements, and circumventing his understandable objections. In addition, Sir Henry had provided another couple of men.

  If, as the British suspected, the kragg contained a horde of treasure, even Annabelle would not have liked to remain behind, and she said so now. “We are on good terms with the Canal Martians, but many still wonder if we are nothing more than invaders. After all, this is not our world. They were here first.”

  “Excellent sentiment,” Arnaud rejoined. “Rather another man than me.”

  “A brave man, sah. That is, I mean…I didn’t mean you’re not…Forgive me, sah.” The corporal seemed to realise his blunder or faux pas.

  “Ne pas s’inquiéter,” Arnaud chuckled. “You are allowed to.” He waved a hand. “Louange. Praise virtues of a friend.”

  4.

  ARNAUD’S FIRST IMPRESSION was a man of sartorial elegance. He arrived intact, complete with well-pressed waistcoat, immaculate suit, top hat and cane. His features were a little too sharp to be conventionally handsome, a fact emphasised by pale green eyes.

  “He looks as if he’s going to church.”

  Although they spoke in whispers disapproval leaked from Annabelle’s words and contempt from Arnaud when he commented that Highmore was, “dressed for his own funeral.”