Mary was most interested in what the boy was reading, which even in the carriage’s gloom she could make out was The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, by Henry Fielding, a novel she herself had not read. So instead of Good morning, which would have been the expected opening conversational gambit from a young lady of manners when placed in the unusual position of being alone, unchaperoned, in the confined space of a carriage with an unrelated and indeed unfamiliar boy, Mary instead said, “Good book?” which she felt would do quite nicely.
“Mmm,” said the boy behind the book.
“I’m afraid I haven’t read anything by Fielding. Should I?”
“Mmm-nnn,” came the reply, which could have meant I don’t know or If you like or even Not if you want to be left alone with a book when you’re in the unusual position of being alone, unchaperoned, in the confined space of a carriage with an unrelated and indeed unfamiliar girl.
After an awkward pause, Mary replied with an “Ah.” But that seemed to do the trick, so far as breaking the awkward pause went. So she continued.
“This is an unusual position in which to be placed, isn’t it? Sharing the carriage, I mean.”
“Not to be rude,” replied the boy. “But it would be greatly appreciated if you could pretend that I’m not here. I’m not supposed to be.”
“Whyever not?” asked Mary.
“I haven’t money for a carriage. So I’m not supposed to be here. Also, it’s the only time today I’ll be able to read.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mary in hushed, conspiratorial tones. “Are you a stowaway?”
“No, no. It’s nothing like that. It’s an exchange. I trade with the coachman. I help him, and he lets me read in the mornings in the carriage, so long as I pretend I’m not here and nobody minds.”
“Oh, I see. And how do you help him?” Mary found this new world of secrets and stowaways terribly adventurous. Romantic, even, though not in a smoochy way.
“He gets letters. From his mum. And he likes to send word back. So I read and write his letters for him.”
“The coachman is unable to read or write?”
“He never went to school, and nobody taught him. It’s not his fault.”
“No, of course not. It’s very kind of you to help him.”
“It’s very kind of him to drive me to work in the rain and give me a moment to read.”
“Well, yes, I suppose it is,” admitted Mary.
The boy put the book down, revealing that there was a perfectly normal boy behind it. She had begun to harbor a sneaking suspicion—and Mary was inordinately fond of sneaking suspicions—that he might be hideously disfigured, or possibly a very famous young prince or duke in hiding, afraid to show his face. But he was neither hideous nor recognizably famous. Just a boy, with a book.
“You won’t tell, will you?” he asked.
“I’m terribly good at keeping secrets,” Mary assured him.
The boy squeezed out a small smile and returned behind The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, by Henry Fielding. Unfortunately, this created for Mary another awkward pause.
“Mary Godwin,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Charles,” said the boy, who stuck out his hand without putting the book down. This left Mary the task of coordinating the handshake in the gloom of the carriage.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Charles. My baby brother bears the same name.”
“Mmm,” Charles replied, having descended once more into his story.
Pitter clop clop badunk splosh whoa! said the horse, and the road, and the rain, and the coachman, indicating that this was Mary’s destination.
“Enjoy your day, and I do hope I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Mary departed the carriage without waiting for an additional “Mmm” from her new friend, stepping into Marylebone Road.
In that half a heartbeat between descending from the carriage and touching down onto the cobblestones, Mary struggled to remember the name of a butterfly. She knew it was the largest in the world, the width of both her hands splayed out, and that it had deep brown eyes painted on soft pink velvet wings. She knew too, from her reading, that it was only found in the remotest jungles of Papua New Guinea in the South Pacific Ocean, half the world away. She was surprised, therefore, to discover that such a thing was flying between her stomach and her heart, its wings brushing against her ribs and pushing the air out of her with each beat.
Riding in a carriage unchaperoned was a brave and arguably rebellious act for a fourteen-year-old girl. Discovering a stowaway was another sort of adventure altogether. But arriving at the house of the great, mad, dead poet Lord Byron, to be tutored alongside an actual Lady, was almost too much to bear. Or so the giant butterfly whispered to her stomach.
But this was not a storybook adventure like the ones Mary read and reread by lantern light until the dim of each night overtook her. This was a real adventure, with herself in a starring role. It was this, or the dreaded, confining, dull gray horror of “school,” about which Mary had only heard from cousins. Still, in that half a heartbeat, Mary put down the need to name the butterfly and blew it out of her chest like puffing out a candle. The toe of her shoe touched the earth, and her adventure would be what it would be.
Mary stepped into the London rain. It had been a brief carriage ride, perhaps only ten minutes, from the Godwin house in Somers Town to her destination in Marylebone.
On the doorstep of the Byron house, Mary saw a gaunt fellow of unnatural height standing under the small porch roof and holding the door open. He kept vigil over a sight that was, for Mary, even more unusual than her encounter with the secret boy in the carriage.
Mary watched as a girl, perhaps eleven, rain-soaked in a once-pretty but now filthy and outgrown gown, poked at a heap of horse dung with a short-handled coal shovel.
Determined to make a good first impression, Mary had prepared a clear-throated Good morning, a handshake or curtsy as circumstances may dictate, and a self-introduction. Instead, what escaped her was a less courteous “Good heavens! What on earth are you doing?”
“Potassium nitrate,” Ada replied.
“Ah,” said Mary, not sure what that was or if it might explain anything.
“I read that the ancient Chinese used horse dung as a source of potassium nitrate crystals. But no joy here,” Ada said, disgruntled. “Just soggy horse poo.”
“So it would seem,” said Mary. “If I may, had you found some …” Mary had to think for a minute.
“Potassium nitrate.”
“Right. Well, what would you use it for?”
“I’d add it to the charcoal.”
“The charcoal,” Mary repeated.
“Willow. Brilliant stuff. Long as you keep the oxygen down while it burns, crisps up good as anything.”
“So, the horse dung combines with the charcoal?”
“Yes. After that, sulfur. Have to send Mr. Franklin to the chemist for that, I expect.”
Mary assumed that Mr. Franklin must be the very tall butler on the doorstep, and noticed that Ada hadn’t seemed to notice that this conversation was taking place in the street, in the rain, without introduction. Which struck Mary as unusual and, therefore, interesting. She persevered.
“So dung and charcoal and sulfur make …?”
“Gunpowder,” explained Ada. “Or it’s supposed to. Haven’t tried it before. I think this poo is too wet.”
“Gunpowder,” acknowledged Mary. “That does sound a little … incendiary.” Then, remembering the age of the girl with the shovel, she added, “ ‘Incendiary’ means—”
“Explosive. Making fire. Kaboom.”
“Quite.” Clearly, the younger girl needed no assistance so far as vocabulary was concerned.
“Nothing incendiary here. Just poo.”
“That is unfortunate,” replied Mary. “Would you mind terribly if I asked what the gunpowder is for? ”
Ada frowned deeply. She darted the coal shovel into the dung, where
it stood for only a brief moment and then fell sadly to the pavement with a skitter and clang.
“It was,” said Ada, “for my sock cannon. Only, I’ve been making it bigger so it can be a Peebs cannon.”
“How extraordinary. And what, pray tell, is a Peebs cannon?”
“A cannon. For shooting Peebs out of.”
Baffled still, Mary tried a new tack. “I don’t wish to be a bother, but would you mind terribly if I came in? It’s raining.”
“Is it?” Ada looked up, squinted, and looked down at her dress, which was even more soaked than Mary’s. “Best come in, then.” At this, Ada turned and marched into the house, past the very tall man, who stood and waited for Mary. She gave at last the curtsy she had prepared, but as this resulted largely in a shower of drips upon the man’s shoes, it wasn’t quite the impression she’d hoped for.
The house, however, made quite an impression on Mary. It was almost impossibly grand compared to the homey-messy-busy Godwin house, which overflowed with sisters and the baby and toys and books. The Byron house was a thing of gleaming marble and white banisters. A house for a Lady. A baroness, Mary reminded herself. Oddly, the Byron house seemed almost empty, and surprisingly clean. Given the drips and soot and mud in Ada’s wake, Mary assumed it must be quite the job to keep it this way.
“Lady Ada!” came a man’s voice from up the stairs. “Lady Ada!”
Mary couldn’t help noticing that Ada walked away down the hall, as though she’d heard nothing.
Footsteps hurriedly descended the white stairs, bringing with them a tallish, slenderish, reddish-haired young man, book in hand, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He paused when he saw that it was Mary and not Ada at the bottom.
“Ah! You must be Miss Godwin,” the young man pronounced. “So delighted, I’m sure. I’m Mr. Shell—er, Snagsby—”
“He’s Peebs!” shouted Ada from down the hall.
The man grimaced. “Well, yes, I suppose I am Peebs. In this house, at least.”
Mary smiled and curtsied again, a little more dignified this time.
“Mary Godwin, Mr. Peebs, and very pleased to meet you.”
“He’s not Mr. Peebs,” mumbled Ada through a mouthful of bread and butter as she returned to the front hall. “Just Peebs.”
“Very well, then,” said Mary. “Just Peebs.” And after a moment for her brain to catch up, she added an “Oh!” when she realized that the gunpowder—dung, charcoal, sulfur, and all—was in aid of launching this poor fellow out of a cannon. Probably against his wishes and better judgment.
Ada merely cocked an eyebrow.
“Notwithstanding,” said Peebs, which made Ada think of sitting, “we shall commence our studies in the drawing room. If you’d like to follow me.”
Mary would very much have liked to follow him, but Ada said “Don’t” in a very decisive voice.
“Don’t?”
“You’ll only encourage him.”
Mary collected herself, the unusual circumstances of the introduction making the task slightly easier, and gave a deep, neat curtsy.
“Lady Ada, I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Mary, Mary Godwin. And I’m to be tutored alongside you, under … um … Peebs.”
Ada looked suddenly cross. “You can’t be serious. I don’t know you.”
“I should very much like you to,” said Mary, the giant butterfly stirring in her chest once again. The opportunity to be tutored with Ada had been hastily and somewhat mysteriously arranged by her family’s patron, and she wanted quite desperately to show herself worthy of it. It seemed unwise to reveal so much so soon, so Mary contented herself with “I have the surest feeling we are to be the best of friends.”
“He’s entirely useless,” said Ada rudely, with Peebs standing right there.
“Steady on,” interjected Peebs.
“It’s true. He can barely seem to remember his own name, and he doesn’t know anything worth knowing. Just Greek, and poetry.”
“I adore poetry,” Mary said, feeling bad for Peebs standing there and being insulted.
“Ugh,” said Ada definitively.
“But Greek!” tried Peebs. “The language of the philosophers. And of science! Plato, and Archimedes …”
“Eureka,” admitted Ada, although Mary had no idea what she meant by it.
“Miss Godwin,” said Peebs, enjoying the rare and momentary victory, “I seem to have failed to introduce myself to your chaperone.”
“I arrived unchaperoned,” said Mary proudly. She thought briefly of Charles, and wondered if he counted as a “chaperone” but decided that he did not, seeing as he wasn’t officially there. “Our family is quite modern.”
“I imagine so, Miss Godwin,” said Peebs. “I was greatly impressed by your mother’s work.”
All this seemed far too conspiratorial for Ada’s liking. Why was this new girl in her house? Who arranged it? How did Peebs know of Mary’s mother’s work? And what was it?
Too much, is what it was. Ada didn’t know why, but she felt like either crying or breaking things. She found herself pulling at the fabric of her dress, something Miss Coverlet constantly chided her for doing. And this made her more upset—both because she was doing something without meaning to and because Miss Coverlet was no longer there to chide her for it.
Ada fled up the stairs, and not to the drawing room to study Greek.
The next two weeks for Mary progressed along similar lines: riding unchaperoned with the reading boy who pretended he wasn’t there, stepping past the mysteriously silent butler (could he speak? dare he not? was he the bearer of some grim secret?), settling down to study in the drawing room, and marveling at Ada’s refusal to do the same.
Mary dutifully attended to her studies, and found Peebs personable and instructive. Occasionally, Ada would be in the drawing room, although she gave the impression of having found herself there by accident, nose in a book. She never took the slightest notice of Peebs. Often she would rise while he was in midsentence and simply wander off like a sleepwalker, still reading, in her increasingly filthy dress.
Ada’s dress, perhaps originally of a cherry velvet, had blotched and frayed and snagged to the point where it seemed like a circus tent after one too many seasons in the rain. The dress had become, to Mary, as much a fixture of the house as the imposing Mr. Franklin, the marble of the foyer, and the rooftop balloon. To satisfy her curiosity, Peebs had taken Mary to the attic, where she had leaned out the window to marvel at the tangled maze of pipes and ropes that kept Ada’s balloon aloft and tethered. Indeed, she was quite keen to venture out and up to the balloon itself, but didn’t want to intrude on Ada, who had raised the rope ladder behind her.
One morning, when Ada failed to appear entirely, Peebs indicated to Mary that the young Lady Byron had locked herself in her room, which was unlike her. Ada had a variety of locations into which she liked to lock herself, and her bedroom wasn’t usually one of them. Mary decided to investigate.
She rapped upon the stout white door.
“Go away,” came Ada’s voice from the other side.
Over the previous fortnight, Mary had heard several variations of Ada’s “Go away,” and knew they could mean different things. But this was the first time Mary had had one delivered to her directly.
“Ada, it’s me, Mary.”
“Go away.”
“What’s wrong? I can probably help.”
“Can’t,” declared Ada.
Mary took a moment, steeled herself, and spoke firmly to the door.
“Can.”
There was a good moment of silence, and then the key turned in the lock on the inside, which was all the invitation Mary was likely to get.
Mary entered Ada’s bedroom for the first time. The word “disaster” presented itself to Mary. It does a good job of describing things like earthquakes and mudslides and tornadoes, but it was simply not up to the task of describing Ada’s bedroom. Mary suddenly felt sorry for the word.
There were books, of course, in sliding piles, propped open and dog-eared. An oilcan was upended and seeping black into the carpet, and several inkpots had done the same. Poking halfway out from beneath the bed was a great iron wrench the size of Mary’s arm. There were odd and chunky bits of brass, like one might find on a ship, and drawings pinned to the wall in clumps as though they’d grown there. There were dolls, but only in parts, and frequently combined with spring-wound contraptions, abandoned midconstruction.
Ada, in her nightdress, had sat back down on the only clear spot of bed, hot tears streaking her face.
“Oh dear, Ada,” said Mary. “What on earth has happened?” She might have been discussing the state of Ada’s bedroom, but all that concerned her was Ada’s tears.
“She washed it.”
“Who washed it? What it?” Mary wanted to correct her own grammar, but she found it too easy to slip into Ada’s little bursts of information. Mary had learned Ada had two distinct ways of speaking: her usual steady flow of facts and observations and conversation and the odd, choppy, disconnected word scraps that came out when she was frustrated or merely distracted.
“My dress. She washed it. Wrong.”
Indeed, there was Ada’s once-cherry dress wadded up into a bundle on the bed. The word “washed” might have been overreaching; “defilthed” would be more accurate.
“It looks quite serviceable to me. I’m sure it’s perfectly fine.”
“Smells wrong.”
Mary took the velvet bundle and gave it an investigative sniff.
“Lavender.”
“Not supposed to.”
The Case of the Missing Moonstone Page 2
