“Beth, are you ill?” he asked, worrying. The marquess felt her pulse and found it quick and somewhat weak. “Can you hear me? Elizabeth?”
She turned slightly, her eyes darting back and forth rapidly behind the dark lashes. Charles bowed his head and folded her hand into his as he prayed aloud, petitioning the Lord for mercy.
“Father in heaven, you are the author of all creation; the designer of realms, both seen and unseen. I’ve spent my life studying mathematics and design, criminal intent and evidence, logic and calculation. However, as I learn more about you, I find myself noticing the internal workings of creation, those hidden complications and mechanisms behind what we call reality. If this strange place does exist, then you are here. If it is only in my mind, then you are still here! No matter where I might travel, you are there, my King, and I thank you for that assurance.”
He kissed her hand, weeping as he continued. “Father, I believe with all my heart that you formed the bond betwixt myself and this incredible woman, and that you designed us to become one. I cannot say just why I am here, but whilst I originally thought myself dreaming, I begin to think otherwise. How can we both be here, if it is but a dream? Rather, I think us here as part of some great plan, and so, I ask you to help me to help her. Are we both ill? Am I lying beside her somewhere, or worse, are we separated? Wherever she is in the real world, I ask you to protect her. If she is lost somewhere, then allow me to find her, please!”
He kissed her small hand once again, the tears falling like rain upon his cheeks. “How I love this woman, Lord! She is my life! Please, do not take her from me!”
As though in answer to his petition, the duchess sighed, and he saw her eyelids twitch.
“Lord, thank you! Oh, my King, thank you so very much!” He gently lifted her into his arms, grateful to feel her breath against his cheek. “Beth, open your eyes, darling. Please. Open them for me.”
The lids flickered, and she inhaled deeply then exhaled, the lashes parting. “Captain Nemo,” she whispered.
Sinclair smiled through a veil of tears. “Yes, dearest heart, it’s Captain Nemo. Your Captain is here.”
“Where are we?” she asked, trying to sit.
“Be careful now,” he warned her. “You’re feverish. I think you may be ill, Beth. Can you tell me what you remember?”
“Very little,” she told him. “I don’t know this house. Where are we? Why are we here?”
“I cannot answer that, not fully. I suspect that you and I are actually asleep somewhere, though not together. Beth, can you tell me what you remember? After the wedding. Anything at all.”
“I’m thirsty,” she told him.
“Of course, you are. Forgive me! I should have thought of that before forcing these questions. Stay here.”
He retrieved a cup of water from a wooden bucket he found near the front door and helped her to drink.
“Thank you, Captain,” she said, smiling. Sinclair continued to weep, and she touched his face, wiping the tears away. “How I love your gentle spirit, Charles, but don’t worry. You’ll soon figure it all out. You’re brilliant at this sort of thing. Now, you asked what I remember. Not very much, I’m afraid, but I hear voices now and then. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, it does, actually. Do you know them? Are they male or female?”
“Both,” she answered. “A woman and two men, I think. One known to me; the other not. The familiar voice speaks in whispers, and he sounds worried. I’m not sure about the words. It’s as though only part of my mind hears them.”
“If you’re sleeping, or even partially so, then you might not comprehend clearly. Can you smell anything?”
“Smell? Oh, I see what you’re asking. Yes, I do. Bread.”
He laughed. “That is from our hostess. She made stew and a pan of oat bread. I can bring you some, if you’re hungry. What else?”
“A wood fire.”
“Also from this cottage. Any perfumes? Soaps? Tobacco?”
She shook her head. “None—no, wait! There’s a sort of medicinal smell, like camphor mixed with peppermint.”
“It’s likely that you’re being tended by a physician or nurse. Once I’m free of this place, I’ll commence with hospitals. Although, it’s possible that you’re in our home.”
“No, I don’t think so,” she told him. “I’d recognise all our doctors’ voices, and wouldn’t you or Paul be near me?”
“I wouldn’t be, unless, of course, I’m sleeping nearby. Perhaps, I’m merely exhausted, and I’ve come to lead you out of this place. I cannot say, but Beth, I will lead you out. Here now, let me help you to stand. Are you strong enough?”
“Yes, I think so. I’m very hungry.”
“Then, I’ll fetch you some of our hostess’s fine stew.” He brought the bowl prepared for him and sat beside the duchess, feeding her. Within minutes, she began to brighten. “You look much better now, my darling. Can you stand if I help you?”
“Yes,” she said.
Together, they walked into the main room, and Charles set her into the rocker. “Here’s more water,” he said, passing her the cup. “Drink as much as you can, Beth. If you’re ill, then this may only nourish your mind, but then how are we to know?” He thought about Georgianna, and how she’d told him that she was born in June, 1889. “Our daughter depends on us.”
“Our daughter?” she asked. “What if this child is a son?”
“I do not think so,” he told her, smiling. “I’m quite certain of it, in fact.”
She shook her head. “Charles, I rarely disagree with you, but in this case, I must. Allow me to explain. I’ve no idea how I came to be here, but I awoke to find myself standing in a terrifying field of sighted stones and moving trees. A horrid birdman kept insisting that I give him my ring as payment for instruction, but I refused. He told me that the only way home was to enter a maze of stone gates, and I despaired of ever finding you again.”
“Until a child appeared and helped. Is that how it went?” he asked her.
She nodded. “Yes! How did you know?”
“Because she also helped me.”
Her dark brows pinched together. “She? No, Charles, it was a boy. He looked very much like you. Tall, well-proportioned, exceedingly handsome, and he had sea blue eyes.”
Sinclair stared. “A boy? Now, that is strange! What else did this young man say? Did you ask his name? His birthdate?”
“I did. He was born in June of 1889. His name is...”
“Robert,” the marquess answered.
“Yes! How did you know?”
“I know it, darling, because you have told me many times that you intend to name our first son after me. That he would be Charles Robert Arthur Sinclair IV, and to avoid confusion, we would call him Robert, or Robby. Remember, how I told you that I wanted to name our first daughter after you? And you said she shouldn’t be called Beth or any diminutive of Elizabeth, because that might also be confusing? We decided to call her Georgianna.”
“Yes, I remember. Charles, are you saying that the girl who brought you here was named Georgianna?”
“Yes,” he answered, smiling. “She said that we call her Georgie. She was born in June of ‘89. Beth, does this mean what I think it does?”
She began to laugh, and the effect lit up her eyes. “I think it explains many things, Captain! Have you noticed the imagery all about us? Carvings, stitches, even the stencils painted upon the wood trim? They appear to tell a story.”
Sinclair walked all around the cottage, examining the motifs present everywhere. Sure enough, the entwined hearts he’d noticed upon the exterior of the door were repeated throughout the interior, but as with the quilt, inside each twin-heart image rested two, much smaller hearts, wrought in gold.
“Twins!” he exclaimed, shaking his head in amazement. “Good heavens, darling, you’re carr
ying twins!”
“Yes, I believe that may be right. Mrs. Alcorn mentioned it to me only this morning—or what seems like this morning. I’m all mixed up, but assuming this is still our wedding day, then it was this morning.”
“What did she say to you, darling?” he asked, deciding to refrain from any mention of the abduction, for it was possible she’d forgotten this dreadful truth, as she often did with terrifying experiences.
“She said that my extreme symptoms and early expansion, as she called it, reminded her of a woman she knew some years ago on the Branham estate. A farmer’s wife who gave birth to two sets of twins, if you can believe it.”
“At the same time?” the marquess asked, sitting upon the stone apron to the hearth.
“No,” she laughed. “Not at the same time. Two babies apart, actually. She had twin boys, followed by two singletons, and then a second set of twin girls. Each twin birth caused her to suffer terribly very early on, and her waistline grew quickly, just as mine does. Charles, perhaps, we have a son and a daughter on the way.”
“And they are both quite remarkable and brilliant,” he said, kissing her hands. “Beth, if true, then I couldn’t be happier, but it’s all the more reason we must find our way out of this place. I fear that Georgie offered no clue as to how we might accomplish that.”
“Nor did Robby,” Elizabeth answered, setting the bowl aside. “However, we might have the information already.”
“How so, my love?” he asked.
“That hideous bird creature tried endlessly to convince me to give him my ring. Might there be a reason why he would do this?”
“I suppose so, yes. He wanted my watch. I’ve no intention of ever parting with this timepiece, Beth, for you had it engraved for me in Glasgow. The inscription heartens me as no other message could.”
“Your watch? Charles, this may sound quite odd, but does the watch work?”
“Of course, it works, darling. It’s an excellent timepiece, although it has been overwound,” he said, removing it from its pocket and clicking the latch to the cover. “See? The hands remain fixed at one-thirteen and thirty-three seconds. An ominous set of numbers, if I remember Kepelheim’s dissertation on occult numerology.”
“On what?” she asked, puzzled.
“Never mind. How might this watch be important, Beth? You think this creature wanted to take it for a reason?”
“I think that all the birds in this awful place are devious, but most especially that one! Perhaps, the watch holds the key to our escape. Might that be it?”
“Key?” he repeated. “Now that is odd. The gatekeeper called gold a key, or I’d assumed he meant gold. Is it possible he meant this gold watch is a key?”
Before Beth could answer, Sinclair felt a heavy shadow of gloom invade his thoughts. He rose and looked out the windows. The birds had left the woods and started towards the cottage. Row upon row, they marched like soldiers, their chatter silenced. They had made their plans, and now they’d begun to implement them.
“What if we cannot escape? Beth, I’ve no idea how to use this watch, even if it is the key! It may already be too late. We may be imprisoned here forever.”
“Charles, my darling husband, you seem to have lost all hope! Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asked.
He wondered if she could bear hearing the truth. “Beth, I think you are incredibly strong. If I tell you something quite awful, can you endure it?”
She smiled and took his hand. “Think about it, Charles. If our unborn children exist in the future, then no matter what you have to tell me, it means that any trouble we face now is only temporary. Yes, tell me. I can endure it.”
His heart lightened at her simple words. “My remarkable wife! How very brave you are. All right. The night of our wedding, something quite dreadful happened. But, as you say, our children will one day be born and will thrive and even come here to help us. We mustn’t see this is as the final event of our lives. It is but one small hurdle on a long and wonderful journey.”
“Yes, it is, husband. So, let us leap over this hurdle together,” she whispered. “Tell me, Charles. What happened?”
Chapter Ten
24th November, 11:03 am - The Empress Hotel
Paul Stuart had tried to visit with the owner of the Empress several days earlier but was told by the steward that Meg Hansen was indisposed. Though the earl had pressed again and again, the stubborn man refused to allow him to move past the foyer, but suggested the peer return in a few days, when the proprietress would be well enough to receive his call. The earl left his card, scribbling a quick message on the back: Let’s talk business. Send word to me at Haimsbury House.
That Saturday morning at half past nine, Paul was called from breakfast to greet a middle-aged commissionaire, who bore a message from Hansen: My lord, I shall entertain all offers today at eleven. Please, be prompt. After informing Duke James and Emerson of his plans, the handsome Scot dressed in his most expensive morning suit, added diamond cufflinks and the Aubrey watch and chain, and then took one of the new, Haimsbury-Branham coaches drawn by a team of four to Whitechapel. His intent was to put on a display of great wealth and power, using these as a fulcrum to prise open the influential madam’s closely held secrets.
Sitting now in a finely upholstered chair opposite Hansen, Stuart offered his most dazzling smile as he accepted a delicate teacup from the hands of a waifish servant girl.
“Thank you,” he said. The girl held onto the saucer, as though unwilling to let go of his hand. “That’s very helpful of you, Miss...”
“It’s Mary, sir. Mary Idlewyld. I can fetch you cakes as well. Or sandwiches. We’ve lots of sandwiches, my lord.”
Meg Hansen cleared her throat and stared at the servant. “Thank you, Mary. That will be all.”
The earl sipped the tea thoughtfully. “A lovely child. She looks quite young.”
“Mary’s nearly thirteen,” the brothel-keeper answered. “Do you like them young, sir?”
“I prefer someone with experience,” Stuart answered with a wink. “It’s kind of you to speak with me, Mrs. Hansen. I know you’re a busy woman, so I shall get to the point of my visit.”
Hansen poured herself a cup of tea, added two splashes of gin, and glanced at her guest, offering a smile so wide that it nearly caused her face powder to crack. “It keeps out the chill. I wonder, have you a chill, Lord Aubrey?”
“Not at the moment, but thank you all the same. My uncle would insist that only whisky can provide such lovely warmth, but it is a debate for another day.”
Stirring the ingredients, the aging madam took a small sip and then set the cup into a matching saucer. “Your uncle is the Duke of Drummond, is he not? Duke James is a very handsome man, as are you, my lord. That business last Sunday night was just dreadful! Our East End newspapers talk of little else. How is Lord Haimsbury, sir? It distressed all of us to learn of his injuries. I do hope he has recovered,” she probed.
“My cousin is much improved,” the earl lied. “I suspect he will pay a call on your household before too many days have passed—to make certain of your welfare, of course.”
“Of course,” she parroted back, thoughtfully.
Reporters had been told that Sinclair suffered a blow to the head, but little else. Thus far, no journalist had managed to breach the strict security at Haimsbury House to learn any different. Thankfully, the strange attacks by Trent’s wolfmen kept their dull wits and even duller pencils busy scraping paper.
At Aubrey’s command, inner circle agents had quickly spread throughout London, to every policeman, every publisher’s office, every gentlemen’s club, every public house to whisper the ‘true’ explanation for the monstrous bloodletting, attributing it to water pollution caused by the dumping of spoilt grain into East End cisterns. The entire tale was fabrication, but no one bothered to question it; such wa
s the state of journalism in London’s fourth estate.
Hansen’s plucked and painted, auburn brows arched in mild surprise and frank relief, for the proprietress had often daydreamed about the handsome policeman, beginning when Charles had first moved into No. 12 with his late wife, Amelia Winstone St. Clair.
“I’m so very happy to hear that the superintendent’s accident did not cause any longlasting mischief! And that incident with the water, well, it was quite a shock to learn that a granary could be so careless.”
“Indeed it was. Did anyone here suffer the effects of the polluted water, madam?”
“Thankfully, no. The Empress is blessed to have a patron, who’s kind enough to send us two barrels of water each day from pumps near his business in Westminster. But I doubt that you called merely to discuss water, Lord Aubrey. A busy man such as yourself hardly visits one such as I without an urgent need, shall we say? How may I assist you?”
Very few men could have done so convincingly, but the earl actually batted his eyelashes, pretending ignorance of her overtly sexual suggestion. “Urgency is probably not the precise word, my very dear Mrs. Hansen. Perhaps, I called merely to admire one of the most renowned beauties in London.”
The effect of Paul’s charming display was immediate. Hansen giggled like a schoolgirl. “Oh, my dear Lord Aubrey, you tease me!”
“On the contrary, I speak truth. I do have one other, small question, Mrs. Hansen.”
“Meg,” she insisted. “Short for Margaret, you know.”
“Meg it is, then,” he answered, offering a dazzling smile. “My dear Meg, you have an excellent view of my cousin’s old house. Through your windows, I mean.”
“Lord Haimsbury’s house? Yes, I suppose I do. You know, I recall the very day that your cousin moved in. I’ve been mistress of the Empress for nearly three dec...”
She had started to say ‘nearly three decades’, which was true, for Margaret Ellen Hansen had come to the Empress as a lithe and lovely, eleven-year-old prostitute, taken from the harsh streets by a wealthy patron. She’d risen quickly amongst the brothel’s pecking order until, in 1860, she was offered her current position as proprietress. However, in a profession where experience came only with time, but time eventually worked against you, Hansen preferred her true age remain a mystery.
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