The discovery of this lacking in her cousin made Dora terribly uneasy. For so many years, she had considered Vanessa to be the perfect model of a lady—the epitome of everything to which she ought to aspire herself, once she regained her full faculties. But now, for all that Vanessa was quite lovely in so many respects, Dora had found an unpleasant quality in her that dashed that perfect image in her mind.
“This is what you want then, Dora?” Vanessa asked softly.
Dora frowned at her. “It is what you ought to want as well,” she said, though some part of her knew that she was being churlish in her insistence.
Vanessa looked down. “I would like to change my nature,” she said quietly. “If only because I hate so much to disappoint you, Dora. But I cannot truthfully pretend to prefer this course of action, except on your behalf. I will support it, if only because I have rarely seen you even this much upset.”
Dora pressed her lips together. There was a terrible, disconnected feeling in her that she could not remember ever feeling before. Until now, she had always been of a mind with Vanessa on all the things she thought most important. To lose that feeling was almost as terrible a grief as if she’d lost Vanessa herself.
“Come with me,” Dora said to her cousin.
Vanessa blinked uncertainly at this. “Come with you?” she asked. “What... to the workhouses, Dora? But I am not as stalwart as you are—they would surely give me vapours! And besides which, Auntie Frances and the countess would never allow it.”
Dora narrowed her eyes at her cousin. “Nevertheless,” she said. “We have always been honest with one another, Vanessa. And much as I love you, I cannot help but think that it will always disappoint me to think on this conversation of ours, unless you later come with me to see the workhouses with your own two eyes.” She paused, and added: “If you can engineer your way to London in order to find the Lord Sorcier, my dear cousin, I believe that you can find your way now to a workhouse with me.”
Vanessa hesitated again on this. Dora could see her cousin’s mind turning with anguish upon the idea.
Dora stood from the breakfast table, and inclined her head. “I have been as truthful as I might,” she said. “If you care for what little remains of my heart, I believe that you will find your way clear to my request.”
As Dora made her way back out into the hallway, she heard a knock at the front door, not very distant from her. The butler murmured to someone, and the door closed again.
“What is this?” Auntie Frances exclaimed loudly. “What new devilry is upon us now?”
Dora altered her path towards the front entryway, where her aunt currently stared down the butler. The servant had in his arms a fresh delivery of roses—but they were no roses that Dora had ever seen before, and she suspected that they were unlikely to be seen again by anyone. One half of the flowers had petals of an unearthly emerald green, which seemed to glow with their own whimsical sort of light. The other half were airy and insubstantial—and as she marvelled at them, Dora realised that they were crafted entirely from a silvery-grey smoke which seemed to waver in the drafty air of the townhouse.
The flowers were, she thought, the exact colour of her eyes.
Auntie Frances turned towards Dora with wide eyes. “This is spite!” she quavered. “The magician has some unreasonable grudge against this family! I cannot think what we have done to deserve such ire!”
Dora knitted her brow in bemusement. “I hardly think that he would send such lovely flowers out of spite, Auntie Frances,” she said. “Though... since I did taunt him on the matter of flowers, I can see his perverse nature leading him to send them now.” Inwardly, Dora began to suspect the flowers as a sort of apology for the delay of her cure, but she did not say this aloud.
“He does his best to thwart your attachment to his so-called friend at every turn,” Auntie Frances moaned, as though she hadn’t heard a word. “What a horrible, nasty man! He cannot intend to marry you, so why would he press this suit of his, except to embarrass us all?”
Dora glanced down at that. She knew, of course, that Elias had only taken up the silly matter of courting her in order to protect both Dora and Albert from the old hens’ designs. But to hear it said aloud—that he could not possibly intend to marry her—left a hollow sort of feeling inside her.
Why should the truth distress me? Dora wondered. I was pleased to have an excuse not to marry this Season. That Elias continues the charade is generous of him, given how frantically busy he currently is.
“Nevertheless,” Dora told her aunt, “it is not good to throw away magical gifts.” Dora said this mainly because she saw that Auntie Frances was considering the flowers with the utmost distaste, and the idea of losing them bothered Dora greatly. “Please do not fan his spite, Auntie Frances. He is very busy, and it must at some point disappear if we do not antagonize him further.”
Auntie Frances sighed heavily and shook her head at the butler. “Oh! Go put them somewhere out of sight!” she said. “My nerves cannot bear the sight of them any longer.”
Her aunt departed the front entry with haste—but Dora hurried towards the butler as she exited. “I will put them away,” she assured him.
She took the flowers up to her room and placed them on the dresser, above the drawer where she’d hidden the mirror. They were truly very pretty, Dora thought—though they must have been only a moment’s work for someone of the Lord Sorcier’s prodigious talent. She found herself staring at them for longer than she ought. Eventually, her eyes caught upon a calling card, nestled among the flowers. She tugged it free and looked down at it.
Lord Elias Wilder, the card said, in messy cursive handwriting. And though the name was no surprise, Dora felt warm and vaguely confused while looking down at it. The name was ever-so-slightly crooked, and she found herself wondering whether Elias had written the card with his own hand. It seemed the sort of thing that he would do. Auntie Frances probably would have considered it another insult, but Dora’s mind lingered pleasantly on the idea for some reason.
Imagine, said a small voice at the back of her mind, if only these flowers were meant sincerely.
It was a bewildering thought. Dora was not sure just where it had come from. She had never been exceptionally fond of flowers, nor dreamed of having them sent to her. But these flowers were very agreeable to her, and it was particularly strange to wish that they were hers even at the same time that she already owned them.
I have far more important matters to attend to than flowers, Dora reminded herself, much as she had reminded Vanessa.
She forced herself to abandon her useless staring upon them, and left them on the dresser behind her.
Chapter 10
Albert must have talked with Elias—because he showed up for Dora the next few days running, much to the hens’ delight. Albert was not terribly pleased to give them reason to hope for wedding bells, but both he and Dora were cognisant of their short deadline, and so he bore their excitement with classic English stoicism. He brought Dora to each of the workhouses where they’d found cases of the plague before, so that they might question the inmates about the things they might have noticed.
Dora had held some stray hope that perhaps the Cleveland Street Workhouse was some nightmarish exception, and that the other workhouses would be better—but she was soon forced to discard this notion. The other workhouses were equally awful in their own ways, all cramped and miserable and full of illness. The inmates of these workhouses were not all set to the task of unwinding hemp rope; some were out in the yards breaking rocks, while many of the women and children were fervently engaged in spinning and sewing, their exhaustion plain upon their faces.
Though Miss Jennings was of course forced to come along, she was an unexpected boon to the whole endeavour—Dora was only so good at holding children’s attention, but the ex-governess had a way of snapping them into well-mannered behaviour as Dora asked them questions. Afterward, Dora was positive she’d seen the woman slipping treats to the
most obedient children for their troubles.
There was certainly a general uneasiness surrounding the plague—and plenty of speculation about its origins. Dora swiftly began to realise that there was more guessing and superstition available than hard facts. Many of the children to whom she spoke had their own rituals and precautions which they swore worked to protect them from being infected, each one wildly different from the others.
“Perhaps there is something to the posies?” Miss Jennings observed, as they headed back towards Albert’s place in the sickroom. The ex-governess had taken almost as much of an interest in the endeavour as Dora had done; she had even brought along a small journal and some charcoal with which to take notes.
“Perhaps,” Dora said dubiously. “At least we have written it down. If there is truly some protective magical merit to the flower, then I suppose the Lord Sorcier will know it.” She shook her head. “The only thing all the children can agree upon is that the workhouse master has been casting the evil eye on those he finds distasteful. And while I am sure Master Thomas is just as terrible as Master Ricks, I find myself doubtful that all of the workhouse masters who have had sick children are secret magicians.”
“I have written it down as well,” Miss Jennings said stubbornly. “We are not experts, Miss Ettings, and so we do not know what is relevant.”
“You seem very intent upon our work, Miss Jennings,” Dora observed. “I am glad of it, but I will admit to being surprised. I am sure that you could have stationed yourself in a corner somewhere and had tea all day, given how little your employers actually wish for you to watch me.”
Miss Jennings flushed at that, and Dora realised that the ex-governess had probably only been encouraged to lax diligence through hints and implications, rather than open language. Nevertheless, she composed herself. “I do not do nothing very well, I am afraid,” Miss Jennings said. “I will admit, it stings my sense of virtue to be paid to avoid chaperoning. But a woman in my position cannot be picky for money, Miss Ettings, and I am being paid unnaturally well to look the other way for you.” She glanced down guiltily at the journal in her hands. “I have always loved children, of course. But I suppose I have applied myself to the matter in part to assuage my conscience.”
Dora gave her a quizzical look. “And what position are you in, Miss Jennings?” she asked curiously.
The ex-governess shot her a surprised look. “Well... I am a spinster, Miss Ettings,” she said. “I have little in the way of wealth or connections, other than what Lady Hayworth and her daughter generously offer me.” Her eyes grew troubled. “I am technically of a rank with you, you know. My father was a baron. But he had four daughters, and I never did manage to marry before he died. I was lucky to be offered a position as governess. Lady Hayworth’s daughter has kept me on at her new home as a companion, but I can tell that her husband dislikes having me around.”
Dora knitted her brow. “Perhaps I shall be a governess too, then,” she said, before she could think better of it.
Miss Jennings gave her a stricken look. “Oh, surely not!” she said. “Please do not think of it, Miss Ettings. It is not so fine a job as you must be thinking, and you can be turned out at any time. Once or twice, when the lady was upset with me, I thought certainly that I must end up somewhere just like this.” She shook her head. “Mr Lowe is a fine man. I can tell that he is not your preference, but you must consider your future, Miss Ettings. You have a brief chance to win him over, and you must surely take it.”
Dora frowned. I should not have suggested my lack of interest, she thought. I hope Miss Jennings does not tattle on me.
As they joined Albert, he admitted that he’d had little luck with his own careful interrogations. Dora had expected that they would move on to another workhouse to keep trying, but she was surprised when he ordered their carriage to return to the townhouse.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
Albert gave her a surprised look. “No, nothing,” he said. “My mother has insisted that your household join us for a private dinner tonight. Were you not told?”
Dora shook her head. “I was not,” she said. “Though I suppose someone might have mentioned and I did not pay close enough attention. That does sometimes happen.”
“Do prepare yourself, Miss Ettings,” Albert said sympathetically. “I expect that my mother shall insist on further conversation with you. If you find yourself overwhelmed, you can turn the subject to flower arranging—she cannot stand it, but she will not want to treat you impolitely. It could buy you a moment of breath.”
Dora smiled at him. “That is uncommonly helpful advice, Mr Lowe,” she said. “I will do my best to endure, but it is good to know.”
Surely enough, as soon as they returned to the townhouse, Dora was swiftly dragged into her room and assaulted by the maids. She didn’t have much that was proper to wear to a dinner with a viscountess, so she was forced to wear the white muslin for a second time. This did not particularly bother Dora herself, though Auntie Frances moaned about it for a good few minutes on their way to Carroway House. The countess was forced to send her regrets due to a headache, though she was pleased enough to see them on their way.
Vanessa, of course, was utterly resplendent. She had acquired a soft blue dress which suited her hair and complexion very well. Had Dora been on better terms with her cousin, she would have thought that Vanessa looked well enough to be a bride on her wedding day—but that hint of unease had yet to disappear, and Dora suspected that it would not go away until Vanessa had gone with her to one of the workhouses.
It was strange being welcomed to Carroway House without any sort of crowd surrounding them. The hallways felt empty in comparison to their last visit, and they were led into a far smaller room for their dinner.
Lady Carroway rose to greet them, offering many enthused greetings and kisses on the cheek to the ladies among their party. Lord Carroway himself and his two eldest sons were present, along with Albert, and the group was introduced all around. Dora did not miss the fact that she was seated directly next to Albert and his mother, near the foot of the table. Vanessa had been seated closer to the head, just next to Auntie Frances and across from Albert’s two older brothers, which must have delighted Dora’s aunt.
“Oh, please do tell me how your work with my son has been going, Miss Ettings,” Lady Carroway asked Dora, not very long after the soup had been brought out. “I hear the two of you have been awfully busy.”
Albert coughed lightly into his hand. “I do not think that is a subject fit for dinner, Mother,” he warned quietly.
Lady Carroway waved him off. “We are near the foot of the table,” she said. “I am sure we can keep our voices down so as not to disturb anyone else.”
Dora frowned at this, forcing herself to focus on the moment at hand. I must somehow stick to proper subjects, she thought. “We have... been to many of the workhouses now,” she said slowly. “They are to be pitied, Lady Carroway, for certain. The children, in particular.”
“Oh yes,” Lady Carroway agreed sympathetically. “I am always so worried about the children. Our charity group runs an orphanage, you know, and I think it must be the most important of our work.”
“I know,” Dora told her, and this time she felt a genuine bit of warmth towards the woman. “I have been to the orphanage. And it is very important work. Would that all of the children in the workhouses were so well cared-for, Lady Carroway.”
Lady Carroway smiled at that. “Perhaps when you are married, Miss Ettings, you may see to sponsoring your own orphanage. That would be a very worthy endeavour. I would be pleased to help you.” Albert’s mother could not help but glance at him as she said this, and he hunched his shoulders very slightly beneath her gaze.
“That is very generous of you, my lady,” Dora said. It was not difficult for her to keep a neutral tone, of course, but she thought that Albert looked most uncomfortable now, and so she changed the subject. “Perhaps I will fill the orphanage with
flowers,” she added. “I do love flowers. I think that I would fill the place with fresh lavender, when I could get it. Do you have a favourite flower, Lady Carroway?”
Albert’s mother winced minutely, but she kept her smile stubbornly in place. “Oh, I... I often cannot choose,” she said. “Lavender does sound nice.”
“Chrysanthemums have an even sweeter smell though, I find,” Dora continued. “Oh. Now I cannot seem to choose either. Do you think that I could put the two together, or would that be silly?”
Albert perked up slightly now, a grin playing about his mouth. “But are the two even in season together, Miss Ettings?” he asked. “I confess, I do not know enough about flowers to say.”
Lady Carroway shot her son a dirty look, but Dora pretended not to notice. “Oh dear, Mr Lowe,” Dora said. “I believe you’re right. Chrysanthemums blossom later in the year than lavender. Now I really must choose one or the other, and I do not like to choose.”
Albert’s mother looked desperate now to change the subject again. But before she could interject to do so, a footman stepped into the dining room and cleared his throat. “Lord Elias Wilder, for Mr Albert Lowe,” the servant informed them.
Lady Carroway’s mouth dropped. “What, in the middle of dinner?” she demanded. “Why on earth would you let him in, Chalmers? You must tell him we are already entertaining!”
“The warmth of your welcome remains unparalleled, Lady Carroway,” Elias said dryly. He had already swept past the footman into the dining room. Elias was dressed much the same as he had been when Dora had last seen him—and though his clothing was clean, Dora could not help but notice how drawn and tired his face appeared.
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