“What say you, Maker?”
Lifting his rod, he kept the tension, so the fish was coming toward him. He reeled in the slack. The fish was going to fight; he pulled it in the opposite direction, pumping the rod and reducing the slack. The fish leapt, trying to dislodge the hook, it was big. Maker pulled in more line, the thing was almost here. Locking the reel, he held the rod firm and reached for the net. He had the trout firmly hooked, this one wasn’t getting away. Tipping up the rod, he lifted its head, it was a stretch, but he scooped the fish into the net.
Got it.
Secure that he had the still struggling fish, he stepped back to the shore and passed the full net to the waiting Blanchard. Then he looked upstream to Monty.
“Permit.”
Sir Giles scoffed. “Don’t need a permit here, man. We’re with the landowner.”
Monty was turned away from the baron and rolled his eyes before speaking. “He means we should permit the séance to go ahead.”
“Damn fool of an idea, if you ask me.”
No one had, but that usually didn’t stop Chalmers.
“You think it’s harmless fun?”
Maker shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“It could upset my Edwina greatly.”
Maker looked down at the man on the bank. “You upset Edwina. This might give her peace.”
The stiff collar scratched at his neck, the cravat strangled him. Maker could tell Blanchard to loosen one and replace the other, but the man had been with him for too many years not to know how to do his job. As Maker held out his wrist for the other man to fix the cuffs with links, Blanchard huffed.
“It’s not the clothes you find restrictive.”
Nor was it. Maker held up the other wrist for the second cufflink.
The pull of his pocket told him that Blanchard was adding something to it, the small weight told him what.
“Give it to her,” Blanchard whispered. “Violet will be a while yet.”
Maker knew what ‘it’ was, he knew who ‘her’ was. “Safe?”
Knowing that his master was crumbling to the idea, Blanchard smiled. “I’ll check.” He left the room.
Blanchard would need a moment and Maker took the time to look about the room. It was a generous size, as were all the rooms in this large blocky house. The four-poster bed was of such generous proportions that there was easily room for two. Hell, there was room for a family of six! Yet he had not been allowed such comfort. This morning he’d woken with a numb foot that made walking at first impossible, then painful, and for longer than it should have.
Their marriage was long over, a thing of history. His hand ran over the new lump in his pocket. There was a possible future. If he could do it. If she would have him. The memory of her taste clung on his lips and his tongue. Sweet nectar. Manna from heaven, from his perfect angel. His own actions had damned him, could he really drag such innocence into his Hell?
Unable to answer himself, his feet moved without command and he was out on the landing. The bedrooms opened on one long wide hallway, with Blanchard on his left. The valet looked both ways, then looked to his master. Maker stood on the central runner of carpet and looked at the tough man. His hand was at his side, the palm down and fingers slightly spread. The pause signal.
The pounding was Maker’s heart. Amethyst was the first woman he had wanted in more years than he cared to think about. He could have her. But shouldn’t. Blanchard’s hand flapped. Maker knew he should turn in the opposite direction, keep away from Amethyst, but he was already approaching his valet. He saw Dickens at a door. The younger woman had her lips pressed together, but she left the door slightly open and stepped away. Her wide eyes bored into him. He should stop this, he had to stop it. The door before him opened of its own volition, and an enchantress pulled him forward. He couldn’t step into the bedroom of a young single woman, yet the door was closing behind him, and his hand was on the doorknob.
The room was smaller than his, but still held a four-poster double bed, lavish and luxurious, lots of space, but all Maker could see was the young woman at her vanity table. She wore a lilac off the shoulder dress, the top five inches were a heavy lace that covered everything, and still managed to emphasise the delectable curve of her breast. The shot taffeta rustled seductively as she twisted to look at him.
“Maker?”
The invitation was undeniable, he was pulled to her against his better judgement. He wanted… couldn’t…
Exposed by that gown, her shoulders were porcelain perfection, but unlike the stone, these were warm as his fingers stroked across the pale flesh. A charming blush painted the young woman he watched in the mirror. Dark eyes watched him back, pools of temptation and desire. She wanted him, though she didn’t yet understand what that really meant.
“Ben?”
The sound of his name on her lips drove all thought from his mind, there was only sensation. Unable to resist a moment longer, he had to touch her, he placed his hands on her shoulders. Unlike the chinaware it resembled, her skin wasn’t cold, and it lit a fire of need in him that strained all temperance. If he was going to do this, he had to do it now.
For a moment, he squeezed her shoulders, desperate for more, one hand rushed suddenly for his pocket, grabbing at the thing inside. The other hand swiftly joined the first, in a hurry now to return to her warmth, to grow the heat inside of him. He raised the pendant over her head and for a moment held it there, saw her focus on it, her eyes widened, those luscious lips parted.
“Ben.”
He lowered the filigree gold heart set with a large, heart shaped amethyst to her chest, tying the purple ribbon so the jewel nestled just beneath the notch in her neck.
Long fingers stroked the piece as she stared into the mirror. “It’s beautiful.”
“You are.”
Resistance was forgot and he bent over and placed his lips on her shoulder. Delight moaned through him, murmured a primal desire. He closed his eyes and trailed kisses up the smooth line of her neck. How would it feel to free her from the tight enclosure of her gown, to lay her upon the bed, to lay with ‒
“Ben.”
His name was but a breath. Before his eyes was the heaving bosom of a woman in want. Could she really want him as much as he wanted her? He had to know, he looked in the mirror. The maiden and her amour.
For a moment she smiled at him in reflection, then she stood, turned to face him. Heat shimmered between them. She was his for the taking. They were drawn together by some invisible force, aether sparkled around them, dragging them closer.
“Lady Gordon!”
Blanchard’s overloud pronouncement was a bucket of ice on his senses. Suddenly Amethyst was a world away, her eyes wide and worried. Her heartbeat fluttered at her neck, and she turned to him. Her index finger on the lips he still needed to kiss. He could reach out and take her, but she was gone to the door.
“What are you doing before my niece’s room?”
Amethyst turned back and flapped her hand to shoo him to the side. He took the step with less uncertainty than Blanchard was showing in his attempt to answer Great-Aunt Flora.
“I, err…”
Seeing he was now out of the way, Amethyst pulled the door open, stepped out and closed the door quickly behind her.
“Oh! Blanchard.”
It sounded surprised enough to fool anyone that she hadn’t known he was there.
“If you’re looking for Dickens, I’m afraid she left a few minutes ago, she’s probably below stairs by now. Great-Aunt Flora, you look especially nice this evening, are you ready to go down?”
Maker was ready, but not going down.
During dinner, Maker watched Amethyst being drawn in by Monty and ignored by pretty much everyone else around them. Jenson tried valiantly to converse but was frozen out by the sheer rudeness of the Chalmers. Why Monty kept them around, he wasn’t sure. Like three-day old fish, these three-day old guests were
past their prime. It was obvious that Chalmers thought Monty could be persuaded to make an offer to one of his daughters, which was probably why Monty was making his interest in Amethyst quite so obvious. Whatever Monty’s interest, Maker knew that that pendant she kept touching was his. And every time she touched it, she touched him. The effect was stronger than the headiest wine.
Eventually the Chalmers’ had to notice her sitting there, they had to put her down.
“What is that thing making all the noise in the workroom?” Willemina demanded at last.
“That is my Desktop Memory And Computation machine, DMAC.” As she spoke, her hand covered the pendant. “It works out very complex mathematics faster than any human can, and it helps show me where mechanical and aetheric advantage meet, to allow for the identification of the optimum –”
“Apparently you talk as much noise as it makes,” Willemina grumbled.
“It’s enough to give a real lady a headache,” Charlotte chimed in.
“You two should be fine then,” Amethyst returned with an overly sweet smile.
Crushing silence fell over the table.
“Rubber buffers.”
The attention of the table turned from Amethyst to Maker. Violet’s gaze in particular felt sharp and unpleasant. He’d pay for this later. But if it helped Amethyst, it was worth it.
“The calculation towers are attached directly to the metal casing. Installing a rubber buffer between the two might reduce the noise.”
Amethyst’s thanks warmed more than the rich food. When the ladies retired, he felt bereft. Soon enough, the men were done and joined the ladies in the drawing room. Amethyst glanced his way, but Great-Aunt Flora took control of that. Under Violet’s hawk-like gaze, he and Jenson moved quickly to the backgammon board. Only concentrating on that battle could help Maker ease the tension from his shoulders.
Chapter 35
The morning had been blissfully quiet, and for once Jenson hadn’t rushed off immediately after breakfast, though Bobbie certainly had – much to her mother’s displeasure. Now Amethyst sat at the DMAC, typing in Stephen’s notes and getting translations, some of which had implications she didn’t like. Great-Aunt Flora had insisted on joining her, which was fine by Amethyst, so the old woman sat in her chair by the fire, reading and occasionally throwing a little conversation Amethyst’s way, or to Jenson, who sat opposite reading the paper. Now Great-Aunt Flora had closed her eyes for a second. Not that she was sleeping of course, that wasn’t what the snoring meant at all.
Amethyst entered one last phrase and decided to look away from the screen. This was an entirely domestic scene and one in which she felt she entirely belonged. It was a wonderful feeling.
Jenson was engrossed in what he was reading, and things she’d noticed came back to her.
“Dean?”
He looked up from the paper. “Amethyst?”
“Are you Jewish?”
Eyebrows rose and he blinked. “Yes. Why?”
She shrugged. “I just noticed that at breakfast I’m tucking into bacon and sausage while you stock up on eggs and toast. Any you didn’t have any meat the night Monty served pork. Doesn’t offend you, does it? That I do eat pork products.”
That big moustache curled up. “Of course not. Don’t tell my rabbi, but I have occasional been known to eat a rasher of bacon. However, it turns out I actually don’t like pork all that much, so I don’t feel I’m missing out.”
“Good.” She smiled at him. “Is that why you didn’t rush out this morning?”
He nodded. “It’s Saturday, which is my Sabbath if not yours. My day of rest.”
“And you choose to spend it in here?”
“I choose to spend it with you.”
That was a very comforting thought. “I’m honoured.” She turned back to her work. It wasn’t, unfortunately, her day of rest and the sooner she understood these notes, the sooner she might be able to help him in his investigations. She pressed the translate key and the sudden shift of the cogs and gears made Great-Aunt Flora jump and snort. Amethyst looked at Jenson, who hid behind his paper, and Amethyst bit down on her lip to control her laughter.
She heard the thud of the cane on the floor, always a sound to strike fear into the heart and then Great-Aunt Flora’s face appeared around the edge of the chair.
“I wasn’t sleeping, you know.”
Amethyst smiled. “Of course not, Great-Aunt Flora. I would never have set this off while you were sleeping.”
She would ‒ the old lady, once gone, usually slept through anything. Great-Aunt Flora woke up when Great-Aunt Flora decided it was time to, and no clock or alarm was going to tell her anything different.
“Good.” She looked the machine over with a distrusting eye. “Maker’s idea for how to solve that problem didn’t work then?”
“I haven’t tried it yet,” Amethyst admitted. “I need to get the right materials before I can attempt it.”
“Right. Now it’s time for a walk.” The old lady got to her feet and looked at Amethyst. “You need to take a break from that and I want to work up an appetite. You’ll join us, Jenson.” There was no way he was going to be able to refuse that invitation. “I assume that wouldn’t be too much like work for a sabbath?”
He folded and put aside his paper. “With you, Great-Aunt Flora, it would be too much a pleasure to be considered work.” Now he looked at Amethyst. “Perhaps we might walk to the village, see if any of the shops has what you need.”
Amethyst saved what she was doing and switched the DMAC off. She’d have to get Dickens to help, there were so many notebooks. She stood and waited while Jenson offered Great-Aunt Flora his arm, as was right and proper and just a little disappointing. Pushing the unfair thought away, she followed the pair into the corridor and towards the foyer of the castle.
There they stopped stock still at the sight of Bobbie coming into the building with the oddest-looking crone and what Amethyst instantly, and somewhat unflatteringly thought, of as Henchman Number 1. Crone and Bobbie moved further inside and Henchman Number 1, with the two big carpet bags he carried, lurked closer to the door.
People seemed to appear out of rooms like magic, drawn by the spectacle.
Bobbie grinned at her growing audience and announced. “This is Madame Esmeralda Dunbloon. She will be our guide into the spirit world tonight.”
Madame Esmeralda Dunbloon’s back bend left her about five feet tall, though she might once have been six inches taller. The stoop also increased her circumference under the layer upon layer of fabric she wore. The riot of colour near hurt the eye and definitely offended any sense of sartorial elegance. Fabrics on display included cotton, silk, chiffon, and some might even have been velvet once. Mirrors, jewels - probably glass, and various tassels decorated her outfit and caught the light as she moved, a kaleidoscope of attention-grabbers. It wasn’t just the clothing that was layered, it was the smell too. Jasmine, patchouli, lavender, urine, sweat, wood smoke, tobacco, even the faint undertone of bad beer. All of it was a sickly and overpowering argument in favour of regular bathing.
Madame Esmeralda, as she apparently liked to be called, scampered around the foyer, shaking a little hand bell here, clicking finger cymbals there. Clicking quite aggressively at one particularly large stag head. At one point, roughly central to the foyer, she reached into her pocket and threw up a handful of white powder, much to Barrow’s annoyance.
When Edwina appeared, Madame Esmeralda near shrieked the house down before she ran to the now frightened woman. Edwina’s arm was grabbed by the bony hand that still had the cymbals attached, while the other hand grabbed Edwina’s forehead, heedless of the little bell that hung from her wrist and made Edwina yelp when it slapped her on the nose.
There was a moment that on anyone less refined than Edwina would have been a struggle, then Madame Esmeralda shrieked again and pulled away in a tinkling crash of bell and cymbal. She wheeled around, arms flailing with overdramatizat
ion. She stopped so suddenly, curling in on herself, Amethyst wondered if she was ill. The room seemed to be holding its breath, and not just because the woman’s wild motions had spread her particular spoor around. Lady Garrington-Smythe looked on imperiously from the doorway of the drawing room, Violet at her side, the Chalmers women crowded around them. Bobbie had stepped closer to her mother, but was far enough away to avoid contact. Lord Montgomery and Sir Giles Chalmers stood in the hall where they had come from the billiard room, cues still in hand. Lovesey was behind them. Only Maker was missing. Amethyst looked over Great-Aunt Flora’s head at Jenson. She caught sight of his eye roll and only just bit back the giggle.
“You!”
The entire assemblage jumped at the barked word. Madame Esmeralda was now pointing directly at Edwina from across the foyer.
“You have suffered,” she yelled, then her voice dropped to a whisper. “Death stalks around you, it won’t leave you. You keep the ghosts here.”
In the first act of actual kindness Amethyst thought she had ever seen from the woman, Violet moved to Edwina’s side, pulling the now shivering woman to her for comfort.
“Hardly impressive, Madame Esmeralda,” Bobbie sighed. “I told you who you would be working for.”
Ignoring the statement, Madame Esmeralda was whirling again, arms swinging up and down, the tinny little bells ringing with every movement. Another handful of powder flew through the air, this one coloured, more grainy.
“Stop that!” Barrow snapped.
Madame Esmeralda wasn’t interested, she stood in front of Lady Garrington-Smythe, swaying from side to side, inspecting the grand dame. She pointed a cymbal-ended finger.
“Not you. You’re a blocker.”
“Oh, I’ll be so sorry to miss the show.”
Amethyst bit down on her lip again. The tone conveyed all the apathy the words didn’t. Now, Madame Esmeralda turned, pointing at Great-Aunt Flora.
Echoes of Aether Page 17
