She ran a hand over her midsection, straightening the ties on her burgundy corset and adjusting the neckline of the ruffled white shirt that fit snugly beneath it. She shook out the black lace–trimmed burgundy skirts, thinking she ought to have opted for riding breeches, even though she hadn’t arrived by horseback.
If she couldn’t manage the rain, she could at least see about curing her sister-in-law’s mysterious illness. Marie took stock of the shelves at the back of the shop, not quite certain what she was looking for, but feeling the urge to do something. Clara Appleton Blake, Miles’s new American bride and the Countess of Blackwell, was afraid of her own shadow and had fallen ill with some indefinable malady.
Marie had not approved of Miles’s decision to marry Clara, but it was done now, and Marie certainly hoped the young woman would eventually display the fortitude necessary to bear children. Marie loved her older brother and wanted to see him content. Miles was unhappy, and had been long before his return from deployment to India with Her Majesty’s finest. Marie had been wracking her brain to find a solution to ease her elder brother’s disquiet. She had hopes that perhaps the thought of a young heir on the way might bring him a measure of peace.
The apothecary shop was warm and cozy, the walls lined with shelves that hosted a wide assortment of cures for nearly everything under the sun. The containers varied in size and shape, and the glass bottles ranged in color from green and blue to brown and black.
Marie rubbed a hand across her forehead and regarded the medicinal bottles with some frustration. She had no idea what she was looking for. When she spied the apothecary, she made her way across the room to his side.
“My sister-in-law, Lady Blackwell, is suffering from an illness that has left her weak and often nauseated,” she began.
The man regarded her for a moment, his face reddening slightly.
Marie refrained from rolling her eyes, but only just. “She is not expecting a child,” she told him, wanting to be clear about the symptoms so that Clara wouldn’t be treated with wrong kind of medicine. Marie didn’t tell the man how she knew her sister-in-law wasn’t carrying a blessed bundle of joy; Clara had yet to allow Miles into her bed. The staff gossiped, even the ’tons, and they were loyal to Marie. There wasn’t much that transpired in the house without Marie knowing all the details.
“Very good, my lady,” he said and lightly cleared his throat as he tipped his head up to meet her direct gaze. She stood a good two inches taller—but he was slightly short for a man and she was tall for a woman. Had she been wearing her favorite black top hat with the hunting goggles and green feathers, the height difference would have been even more pronounced.
“Perhaps this might ease Lady Blackwell’s discomfort,” the man said, reaching for a bottle on a high shelf. “And I do have one other herbal mixture due to arrive this afternoon. It treats nausea and fatigue quite well—if it pleases you, I can have it delivered to the manor.”
Marie scrutinized the bottle he handed her, nodding absently. She would see to it personally that Clara at least tried it. Miles and Clara had been married six weeks, and Marie had little patience with the young American’s reservations about taking her place as lady of the estate. Marie had an estate of her own awaiting her, a home thirty minutes to the north that had been part of her mother’s holdings. Marie had hoped to move there, renovate the place, and begin her life as a truly independent woman of means when Miles married. Clara had had ample time to familiarize herself with Blackwell Manor, but she still made no move to take on her responsibilities. Perhaps if she were no longer ill, she might be more willing to become a proper wife to Miles.
Miles needed a companion, someone who might provide a supportive shoulder and listen to his troubles at the end of a long day. There had been a time when he had confided in Marie, when they had been the very best of friends. That had changed one night in his eighteenth year. He had come home with a frightening gash across his face that had taken weeks to heal and left behind a jagged scar in its place. He had withdrawn, had laughed less with Marie, and any kind of meaningful conversation ceased altogether.
Marie signed her name to the purchase slip and thanked the apothecary with a nod. The paper bag crinkled as she folded it closed and made her way to the door. She didn’t bother with the umbrella, but simply pulled her hood back up over her head. She braved the deluge of rain and quickly crossed the street to her waiting Traveler. She climbed inside, slamming the door and gritting her teeth against the cold before settling behind the steering wheel. She fired up the vehicle by twisting a crank and pushing a series of buttons on the dash.
It wasn’t entirely unusual for a woman to operate a Traveler herself, but Marie was well aware of the image she presented to society. Mid-twenties, unmarried—she did as she pleased without a man by her side. She was fairly certain most of her friends, if not her family, were baffled by her. She had had her choice of suitors but found them all lacking. Marie had decided at a young age that she would marry for love or not at all.
Sitting for a moment to allow the coils in the seat to warm, she flipped on the window-washer blades and sighed, feeling weary. Miles’s “accident” had been years earlier, and he had never once spoken of it. She had pestered him about it once, and, at his angry, abrupt response, had resolved to leave it be. She had felt his withdrawal keenly at the time, but she still occasionally saw a spark of his old self in him. Miles had his secrets, things he didn’t want her or their younger brother, Jonathan, to know.
Their mother had died giving birth to Jonathan, and their father had passed several years ago; the former they missed greatly, the latter engendered no tender emotions whatsoever. Although not the eldest sibling, Marie often felt the urge to fill the gaping hole left by their mother’s death, and her self-imposed responsibility likely contributed to her unmarried state. She adored her brothers and had decided she would be the favorite aunt to their future children, the one person who would serve dessert before dinner and take them to the carnival.
She thought of her own aunt who was in residence at the Blackwell estate, along with her two cousins, and grimaced. They were visiting despite the lack of an invitation and showed no signs of departing any time soon. She pulled the Traveler onto the road and headed for home. One bright spot, she supposed, was the fact that Miles’s three best friends from his military deployment were also visiting. They helped diffuse some of the familial irritation that made Marie want to disown the lot of them.
As she passed Coleshire Airship Field, Marie glanced out at the rows of airships in the process of either landing or preparing to lift off. Standing head and shoulders above the rest in both structure and quality was the Pickett Airship line, owned and operated by none other than Miles’s military friend Daniel Pickett. His quick engineering and entrepreneurial talents had created a small empire, built on transporting England’s citizens all over the globe. He was handsome as sin, and Marie might have expressed an interest in forming an association with him had he not been rather remote and unapproachable.
She continued along the heavily wooded paths that stood between Coleshire proper and the Blackwell estate. The thick vegetation sheltered the Traveler from the rain, but the darkened interior of the tunnel-like paths made for a poor trade. She always felt slightly uneasy making the journey, and she experienced a sense of relief when Blackwell Manor’s tall turrets came into view.
Marie drove the Traveler to the stables and garage, leaving the Traveler with the garage master. As she made her way up the sloping lawn to the manor, she clutched her purchase from the apothecary shop tighter in her hand. Miles was away from home for a few more days—Parliament, he’d said—and Marie hoped Clara’s health might begin to show some improvement before his return.
Something wasn’t right. Marie sat by Clara in the library after dinner and examined her sister-in-law. Clara was paler than before, and while the doctor who visited that afternoon h
ad praised Marie’s herbal purchases, he had expressed privately to Marie that he doubted they would do much besides ease some of Clara’s symptoms. He was still baffled by the nature of the illness and could offer no new insight despite examining her for the third time in as many weeks.
Marie frowned at the burst of harsh laughter sounding from a small gaming table where Aunt Eustace Charlesworth sat with her two adult children, Arthur and Candice, and two of Miles’s friends, Oliver Reed, a Bow Street consultant, and Dr. Samuel MacInnes. Eustace was in hostess mode, attempting to charm the gentlemen without realizing, apparently, how dearly she lacked social graces. His friends didn’t seem to mind Miles’s absence. They had even said that, given Miles’s expected return in a couple of days, they would be happy to wait, if it wouldn’t be a bother for Marie, Clara, and Jonathan.
Eustace laughed again and snorted as well, and Marie briefly closed her eyes. A bother? Were it not for Oliver, Sam, and Daniel, Marie would be obliged to entertain the relatives herself. The presence of Miles’s friends was anything but a bother. She never would have believed it possible that she would prefer Clara’s company to anyone, but the thought of joining her aunt and cousins at the gaming table set her teeth on edge.
The fire was warm and crackling, casting a cozy glow and warding off the springtime chill. Clara didn’t seem to be benefitting much, however; she shivered despite the blanket Marie had draped around her shoulders. Marie glanced at Daniel Pickett, who sat near them at the hearth. He met her gaze, and his eyes flicked to Clara and back. Marie lifted her shoulder in a small shrug, and Daniel’s brows knit in a frown.
“Is there something I can do for you, Lady Blackwell?” he asked Clara softly. “Perhaps some tea?”
Clara shook her head but managed a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Pickett, but I find I haven’t an appetite for much of anything.” She looked at Marie, and added, “And thank you ever so much for the herbal concoction. It settled my stomach quite nicely.”
Marie nodded and felt a tug on her heart when Clara managed to hold her gaze for longer than her customary two seconds of eye contact. There was something almost pleading in her expression, but Marie was at an utter loss to help her.
“When Miles returns,” Marie said, “I will see to it that he takes you to London for a thorough examination.”
Clara smiled, but it lacked any genuine sense of joy. “Dr. MacInnes mentioned the same thing to me earlier,” she murmured. “He said he has access to laboratories with the latest equipment and associates with many years of experience.”
She coughed, and Marie winced at the sound. Sam looked up from the gaming table along with Eustace and the others, his expression tightening as he glanced at Clara. He excused himself, rose, and joined them at the hearth. He placed the back of his hand to Clara’s forehead and pressed his fingertips to the pulse point at her wrist.
Sam said something to Clara, but Marie missed it. She made her way across the room to the massive bank of windows that opened out onto a large patio at the back of the house. Sam’s instincts as a personable doctor would probably never fail him, but he couldn’t hide the anxiety in his eyes when examining the sick young woman. Marie looked out into the night but saw only her reflection in the glass. Her face was stoic enough, but the emotions roiling beneath the surface had her heart increasing its rhythm uncomfortably.
Miles needed to come home. He could fix things, she was sure of it. But he would be gone for at least one more day if her suspicions were correct. For years now, his pattern of activity had taken him away from home on a monthly basis like clockwork. He often used business and Parliament as excuses—which were valid enough—but she knew that, more often than not, he’d spend at least three days at the family hunting lodge on the coast.
Marie glanced at Clara’s reflection in the dark window and felt a familiar surge of frustration. If only the girl were stronger! Clara was perfectly kind and lovely, and Marie knew her disdain of the girl might be misplaced, but Miles needed someone strong. Life wasn’t kind to those who lacked the strength to fight.
Two of the household’s ’tons entered the room and noiselessly cleared the teacups and small dessert plates. They were perfect replicas of humans, programmed to have personalities, traits, and physical abilities that were often deceivingly human from a distance. They would finish their duties in the kitchen and then retire to their chambers where they would plug in to the Tesla connectors in order to be fully charged by morning.
Marie turned when she saw Jonathan’s reflection in the window. He crossed the room to her with a smile, and she felt her heavy mood lift. He was dashing with his dark hair and his poet’s soul, and he smiled as he placed a kiss on her cheek. He was nearing twenty-two and had plenty of prospects for marriage, but he had yet to settle on a significant pastime. He had written volumes of poetry, but she couldn’t convince him to submit any of it for publication in London. Their father would have thought it a vulgar display, and Marie was afraid his memory loomed large over Jonathan.
“Out courting?” Marie asked him.
“Regrettably. Another money-grubber.”
“You’re finding those in plentiful supply of late.”
Jonathan nodded. “And I tire of it. Would it be so much to ask that I find a woman interested in me rather than Miles’s deep pockets?”
“Take comfort in the fact that you do not suffer alone. Nor will you be the last.”
Jonathan offered her a half smile and turned his attention to the room. “Are they ever going to leave?” he muttered and gestured toward their relations, who sat at the gaming table with Oliver Reed and now Daniel Pickett, who must have filled Sam’s vacant seat. Sam was still conversing with Clara by the hearth.
“I suspect they are waiting to see Miles,” Marie told him. “Eustace likes to be able to tell her friends she spent ever so much time with her darling nephew, Earl Blackwell.”
Jonathan nodded toward Clara. “And how does she fare this evening? She wasn’t looking well this morning at breakfast.”
“She’s not looking well now,” Marie said with a frown. “Jonathan, I am concerned about how this will affect Miles.”
“How what will affect Miles?”
“Her death.”
Jonathan’s eyes widened. “What are you saying?”
Marie pulled him by the elbow to the far side of the library. She felt the absence of warmth from the fire but she wanted the privacy the dimmer corner of the room offered. “I do not believe she possesses the fortitude to conquer this illness. I suspect something nefarious may be afoot, and society is suspicious enough of Miles as it is. The scar on his face, his dismissive demeanor, his unwillingness to participate socially in circles that befit his station.” There was more, of course, but Marie was not about to share the true nature of her concerns with her younger brother. Not yet.
Marie spent the next morning in the Tesla control room, reading through the transcriptions of telescribed messages that had been sent and received by all of the manor’s guests. She then perused the programmable tin punch cards that served as the brain functioning for the ’tons. There were a few missing, and Marie’s suspicions grew.
The lunch hour was at hand, and Marie had only just left the Tesla control room when a high-pitched cry sounded from the second floor. Her heart filled with dread, Marie rushed to the front hall and up the stairs. Mrs. Farrell, the human housekeeper, rushed from the west wing, eyes wide and fists clenched. Marie grabbed the frantic woman by her shoulders and ground her to a halt.
“Is it Lady Blackwell?”
“Yes, my lady,” the older woman choked out. “She is dead!”
Marie’s head spun, and she tried to pull her thoughts together. “Summon the doctor and the constable,” she said. “And gather all the guests in the library. I must speak with them.”
Mrs. Farrell shook her head, her eyes still wide with terror. “The Charlesworth
s left for London after breakfast and will not return until late evening. And Mr. Pickett has also departed. Something about trouble with one of the airships at the landing field.”
Marie felt her nostrils flare. She ought to have looked earlier, ought to have investigated the Records Room when she first suspected something was awry. She clenched her teeth and briefly closed her eyes. “Find Mr. Reed, then, and send Dr. MacInnes to me in the countess’s chambers. And instruct the maids to stay out of the guest rooms until further notice. I do not want anything touched.”
Mrs. Farrell nodded, her pulse throbbing noticeably at her throat, and hurried off.
Marie clutched at the banister as she stumbled her way up the stairs. She ran the length of the hallway to the massive doors that led to the earl’s and countess’s suite. Mrs. Farrell had left one of the doors open, and Marie entered, weaving through the sitting room and into a small hallway on the left that housed the countess’s chambers along with dressing rooms and maid’s quarters.
The room was dark. The curtains had yet to be opened, and Marie impatiently flung the fabric to the side, wondering if she were merely postponing the inevitable. She needed to look at Clara, and she didn’t want to.
The figure on the bed lay horribly still. As Marie approached her, she held her breath and hoped that Mrs. Farrell had been mistaken, that Clara was still alive and hadn’t died mysteriously under the same roof that had sheltered Marie her entire life. Her throat thickened as she looked upon Clara’s face, no paler in death than it had been the night before. Thoughts of the missing ’ton programming cards swam through Marie’s head. She reluctantly placed two fingers against Clara’s neck.
“She is gone, then?”
Marie jumped at the intruding voice. Sam MacInnes stood in the doorway and regarded the young countess. He shook his head and approached the bed, checking for a pulse as Marie had done and opening one of Clara’s eyes with his thumb.
Beauty and the Clockwork Beast Page 33
