by Y. S. Lee
A hideous pause. Then, at some silent signal from his mother, Prince Bertie plunged on. “The memories that were triggered yesterday — although it is too late for the late prisoner’s benefit, I shall be giving my memory of events in a statement, in case the — the Beaulieu-Buckworth family should pursue a civil case.” He swallowed. “That will, of course, cause much unhappiness. On — on advice, I shall undertake a tour of some sort — perhaps to the colonies — while the case is heard.”
Mary heard this with mingled pity and exasperation, as seemed ever the case with the prince. Doing the right thing, then running away from the consequences. Yet at least he’d ultimately been persuaded to behave correctly. “I wish you a safe journey, sir.”
Prince Bertie blushed again and shifted in his seat. “Oh — thanks.” His eyes were trained on his mother, awaiting her signal. At a glance from her, he stood hastily. “Well, I must go. It’s been a pleasure to see you again, Miss Quinn, and I wish you well.”
As the door closed behind him, the queen turned to Mary. “Rest assured, Miss Quinn,” she said, “the Prince of Wales knows nothing of your real employment.”
Mary stared at Queen Victoria’s impassive features. “I — I’m very grateful for your circumspect manner, Your Majesty.”
She sniffed. “Nonsense. One can’t employ secret operatives, then go about exposing them to all and sundry — even to a person who is the future king. But we are straying from the subject at hand.
“The last reason we asked you here today, Miss Quinn, is to thank you for your exemplary labors throughout the confusions of yesterday. We are most grateful for your prompt, loyal, and clearheaded actions. In your absence, there might have been a genuine tragedy.”
“Your Majesty is extremely kind, but the real hero of the day is Mr. Easton,” said Mary promptly. “He first saw the crates of guncotton and sounded the alarm. I was only the messenger, ma’am.”
The queen looked at her with reproof. “We have, of course, considered Mr. Easton’s role. But this is a conversation about you, Miss Quinn.”
Mary subsided.
“We remain grateful not only for the swift and effective delivery of the message but also for your return underground to neutralize the guncotton. We wish to recognize your acts of bravery and loyalty in an official fashion.”
Mary’s ears began to buzz — partly a result of fatigue, as she’d not slept the previous night, but mostly because the conversation, strange to begin with, had taken flight into the realm of outright fantasy.
“We have consulted with our advisers — in confidence, of course — and it appears there is no appropriate public honor to offer you. We presume that in your line of work, you would in any case prefer to avoid the sort of notice such an award would attract.”
Mary bowed her head. “Yes, ma’am.”
“We wish, therefore, to make you a present that will enable you to continue your work with an eye to cases that best deserve your attentions, a gift that will free you from some of the petty concerns of life as a remarkably independent female.” At a signal from Her Majesty, the secretary glided forward, proffering a silver salver. On it lay a paper rectangle addressed to Miss M. Quinn.
Mary picked up the envelope as though it might scorch her fingers. Held it for a moment, wondering what preposterous three-volume novel she’d fallen into. Eventually, as the queen seemed to be waiting for her, fumbled it open. And found a check.
She nearly dropped the slip of paper — signed, so improbably, Victoria R — from suddenly trembling fingers. “My — Your Majesty?”
Not even the faintest of smiles. “We should, perhaps, explain the logic behind the sum. It is a block of capital that, well invested, will create for you a modest annual income.”
Mary simply stared. She knew it was impolite. A breach of etiquette. And yet for the longest time, she gaped at the Queen of England, unable to summon anything like speech. When she finally spoke, eloquence escaped her. “Your Majesty, this is beyond generous. I can only thank you and say that I do not deserve your gift.”
“That is for us to determine, Miss Quinn.” A hint of reproof there. “Do you intend giving up your interesting and unusual work?”
“Oh, no, ma’am.” She couldn’t imagine sitting at home over a circle of needlepoint all day — no shape to her days, no purpose in life. She’d found a different vocation, briefly, in her father. Couldn’t have imagined the void his departure after such a fleeting presence would leave.
“It is not ladylike.”
Oh, dear. “No, ma’am.”
“And unsuitable for a married woman.”
Mary’s pulse accelerated at the unspoken question. She said in firm tones, “There is no conflict there, ma’am: I shall never marry.” This was to keep herself from fancy as much as anything.
A lifting of eyebrows. “Never? You are too young to make such a definitive statement, Miss Quinn. Marriage and motherhood are among the highest expressions of a woman’s abilities.”
What on earth could she say in reply? Did one ever disagree with the queen? Fatigue combined with curiosity made Mary reckless. “Your Majesty, you yourself are a shining example of the ability to combine domestic duties with much broader responsibilities. You must believe it possible for other females?”
Queen Victoria looked startled — it was unlikely that her pronouncements had ever been challenged like this since she ascended the throne — and then, after an agonizingly long moment, nodded. “A point well taken, Miss Quinn. But you said that you would never marry.”
It was time for a mutual concession. “Perhaps I spoke in haste, ma’am. But I shall not marry in the near future.”
The Queen nodded. “A wise decision. Marriage is a blessed state not to be entered into lightly.” She paused. “Is there anything you wish to ask of me, Miss Quinn?”
This was pure formality; Queen Victoria no more expected Mary to say yes than to dance a vigorous polka. And yet Mary said, quite calmly, “Yes, please, ma’am.”
Her Majesty blinked twice. “And what is that?”
“I — I believe His Highness the Prince of Wales, explained to you the matter of the missing ornaments.”
Her Majesty’s expression congealed. “The matter for which you were first engaged. Yes.”
“One of the parlor maids working under Mrs. Shaw, a young woman named Amy Tranter, was dismissed under suspicion of having carried out the thefts.”
One regal eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. “Yes?”
“It’s a terrible thing to be falsely accused and dismissed without a letter of character. She has no chance of finding work in service in those circumstances. I should be extremely grateful, Your Majesty, if you could see her restored to her place.”
The queen looked surprised. “Your request does you credit, Miss Quinn. It shall be done.” She touched a bell. The interview was over. “We wish you well in your future endeavors, Miss Quinn. It has been a pleasure speaking with you.”
“Your Majesty is, once again, too kind. I shall always be grateful for your generosity.”
For the first time, the merest hint of a smile. “And we to you.”
Ten minutes later, Mary stood outside the gates of Buckingham Palace, feeling curiously benumbed. It was her predominant condition of late — a not unreasonable response to the violent revolutions her life had undergone in the past day and night. Secret agent. Daughter. Jailbreaker. She was none of these things now.
Instead, she was bewildered, flattered, humbled by Her Majesty’s gift. Rich, too — she’d suddenly stumbled into an independence, the significance of which could not be overestimated. It relieved the necessity of choosing, and choosing swiftly, between Anne Treleaven’s and Felicity Frame’s visions of the Agency. It meant she need never work again, if she was frugal and practical and so inclined. It also changed her social status, in curious but tangible ways. If she didn’t need to work, she could have different expectations. It meant that although not born a lady, she could be one
all the same. It meant, too, that she would bring a dowry to any marriage she contracted. She might, in her own small way, become a target for middle-class fortune hunters if they knew of her windfall.
It also created new questions. Whom could she trust with her money? Where ought she invest it? Should she rent a little cottage somewhere, or would rooms suit her better? Where did she even want to live? If she lived on her own, she could employ a charwoman or a maid. Did she want to do that? Did she want the money, and its ensuing complications, at all? Had her father lived even a little longer, her decisions would have been clearer, more focused. But now, it would be simpler to give it away. She’d never had money in her life. She’d not miss its absence if she didn’t become accustomed to it.
Finally, it created a terrible sense of guilty liberation. No employer, no father, nobody to whom she had to explain her windfall. No one to naysay her choices. She was freer and more powerful than she’d ever been, and lonelier as well.
Mary felt dizzy — something not difficult to comprehend, with grief, exhaustion, and hunger feeding her confusion — and sat down on a bench in the park. Ladies didn’t do that, of course. Not alone, and especially not on a frigid winter morning when the world was coated in a layer of ice and grime. But she wasn’t a lady yet. She did, however, regret sitting when a few moments later, a gentleman in a rumpled suit plopped down beside her in skin-crawlingly familiar fashion.
“Let me guess: you were sacked.”
She took a deep breath and a firm grip on her temper. “Perhaps,” she said. “It’s none of your concern, though.”
“You’re so unfriendly,” said Octavius Jones, in injured tones. “Is a little civility too much to ask?”
She ignored this. “Amy Tranter’s got her job again. I don’t think she’ll trouble you now.”
His show of surprise was genuine, and then extravagant. “And how did you manage that, missy? Let me guess: you took the blame on yourself, like an old-fashioned heroine, and begged the hard-hearted housekeeper to have Amy back.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. Don’t put a stop on that check you gave me, though — I’ll be giving her the money. Every girl needs a bit of capital.”
“And I’m to believe you’ll pass on the blunt?”
“As long as Amy doesn’t come after you, isn’t it money well spent?” She meant to sound defiant, but the words came out thin and weak.
He frowned, then peered at her. Poked his nose so close that he nearly touched her face. “My word . . . you look rough. Crushed.”
She swatted him away. “Thank you.”
“Truly, though,” he persisted, not at all put off by shoving. “You look as though you’ve not slept for days. And when was the last time you ate?”
She closed her eyes. Perhaps when she opened them, he’d be gone.
Instead, he sighed gustily and began a rummaging sound. “You’re so melodramatic, starving yourself into a pale and interesting state. Here.”
She felt something bump against her hand. “All I want is for you to go away.”
“Open your eyes and see first.” A pause. “Go on. I’d dump it in your lap, only you’d take my head off for such a liberty.”
She lifted her heavy eyelids and blinked at a paper-wrapped lump. A small patch of grease darkened one side of the paper, and suddenly she could smell it: smoke, salt, fat, wheat, yeast. Her mouth flooded so quickly, it was all she could do to keep from drooling.
Jones grinned. “You’re welcome.”
She eyed it, trying her best to show suspicion. “Why are you walking around with a bacon sandwich in your pocket?”
“My breakfast. But I think you need it more.”
She peeked inside the paper, releasing a puff of fragrant steam into the wintry morning. The bun was golden, the bacon curling slightly at the edges. “If you ever need to poison someone,” she said, unwrapping the sandwich all the way, “do it with a bacon sandwich.”
He winked. “My sentiments exactly.”
It was worth the risk. Mary devoured it in two minutes, heedless of the grease staining her gloves, Jones’s close scrutiny, or the colossal impropriety of a lady eating in public — in a park, no less! When she’d swallowed the last bite and dusted the flour from her fingers, she felt half-way human again. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Now, how about telling me why you left the queen’s house in your Sunday best, looking half starved to death?”
“I’d rather not,” she said, calm now. The urge to strangle Jones had vanished with the appearance of warm food, but she’d not lost her bearings entirely. “I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain. That’s that.”
“What about the leads I gave you? The Hacken tarts.”
She smirked. “Hackens are for hacks.”
“It came to nothing?” His dismay seemed entirely genuine, but of course that was his professional amour propre speaking.
Mary thought of what the Prince of Wales’s confessions had wrought. “I wouldn’t say ‘nothing.’ But it wasn’t anything like you expected.” She smirked again. “No grist for your sleazy mill.”
“Damn.” He drooped for a moment, then cheered up. “Well, I got the best of you, then. Amy Tranter’s off my back, all for the price of some useless gossip and a bacon bap.”
“You seem intent on forgetting that five guineas.”
“Bah.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Cheap, even at that price.”
“Off you go, then. There must be scandals to invent.”
And yet he lingered beside her. “Care for a drink? I know a good little public house not far from here.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Off home, are you? I’ll see you there.”
Home. She’d no idea what that might mean. “Thank you, no.”
He frowned. “Sure you’re all right?”
She stifled a yawn. “Of course.”
“That’s not very convincing.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jones, leave me alone.”
He stood then, entirely unperturbed. “That’s better. Well, then, Miss Quinn — by the by, is that your real name?”
Another question she couldn’t really answer, even to herself. “It’s good enough for you.”
“Right then, my friendly darling. Until next time.”
“There won’t be one,” she said automatically.
He resettled his hat. “Of course there will. I’m already looking forward to it.”
She sat on the bench until a park warden, concerned by her lone presence, asked her to move on. She rose amiably enough — her feet were frozen anyway — and walked a few paces until realizing she didn’t know where she was going. Despite her fatigue, she wasn’t ready to return to Acacia Road. That would mean more discussions, more questions, more uncertainty. She was marooned in London, homeless once more.
There was, however, one more task to perform. One more conversation to have before she could deem this assignment complete. And reluctant as she was to face James Easton once more, there could be no new existence — whatever form that might take — until she’d laid this present one to rest.
As before, the moment the cab rolled away, leaving her at Gordon Square, she panicked. It was still late morning — utterly inappropriate for a social call — and James was probably at the office. She vacillated before the glossy front door for a minute before remembering that Russell Square was quiet and nearby. She could walk there for half an hour quite decently, if she could bear the cold. She turned on her heel — just as the front door clicked open.
“Mary?”
Caught in the act, and an act of cowardice, besides. She turned with as much dignity as she could muster. “James. Hello.”
A small smile hovered about his lips. “Aren’t you coming in?”
“You must be on your way to work.” He was wearing an overcoat and hat.
“I was coming to try to find you.”
“Oh.” The boldness of his confession made her shyer than ever, and s
he receded a step.
“Come in.”
“I can’t stay long. . . .”
He grinned, took three long strides over, seized her about the waist, and hauled her over the threshold. “Coward.” Kicking the door shut behind him, he wrapped his arms about her and kissed her soundly. “You’ll run through explosive-filled sewers and stare down the Queen of England, but you’re too frightened to call on me.” He kissed her again, toppling her hat to the floor.
“That’s different,” she said, thoroughly breathless. “Etiquette, and all that.”
He laughed. “Come on, then. Upstairs.”
Pure panic, shot through with excitement. “What?”
“To the drawing room, of course. We’ve a great deal to discuss.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”
He gave her a look. “Although we could start elsewhere. . . .”
She blushed furiously. “The drawing room is perfectly adequate, thank you.”
James installed her on a sofa by the fire, rang for tea, and fanned the flames until the fire snapped and roared. Mary loved watching him. His hands were long and beautiful, and he moved with swift deftness — no wasted actions or overlarge gestures. He grinned at Mrs. Vine’s surprise at the unexpected guest but said nothing to explain Mary’s presence. When they were finally alone — door closed, fire blazing, tea poured — he finally sat down beside her and said, “I’m glad you came today.”
Mary fidgeted with her teacup. His knee nearly touched hers. “You must be anxious to know what happened to Wintermarch and Honoria Dalrymple.”
“Not particularly, no.”
She stared at him, arrested. “You’re not?”
“I’m mildly curious, I confess. But that’s not what I’ve been thinking about.”
“Oh.”
“What were you about to say to me?” he asked. “Down in the sewers.”
She felt the heat creeping up her neck, flowing over her cheeks to her ears. “N-nothing. I don’t really remember.” If she looked at him, she would be lost.
