Wild & Steamy

by Carolyn Crane

  The inspector gave her another long look before nodding. “Thank you. Constable, you didn’t see this machine?”

  The inspector had asked him so that she could take a rest, Temperance realized. All at once, she felt wretched. Miss Lockstitch had called this woman a jade whore, but given the difference between the caricatures and reality, given the Horde’s history within this land, Temperance began to understand that the name wasn’t a literal one.

  “I didn’t see it, sir,” he said. “I came into the room after she screamed.”

  The inspector glanced at the bed—wide enough for two, but clearly only used by one. Temperance felt her cheeks flame, and her husband’s lit like a bonfire.

  It is my illness, Temperance wanted to say. But it wasn’t. Even if she hadn’t been consumptive, the horrid man wouldn’t have been welcome in her bed.

  “I see,” the inspector said. “Do you have a window in your room, Newberry?”

  “No, sir.”

  She looked down at the sketch in her hand. “Tell me about Spring-Heel Jack. Who is he?”

  “He’s no one, sir,” Newberry said. “At least, not anymore.”

  “Dead?”

  “No. He never was anyone, not exactly. The stories about him started up about fifty years ago. First, in the newssheets, reports from the people he’d attacked: a baker’s daughter from Prince George Island…” He stopped. “That’s the long island that lies east of Manhattan City—”

  “I’ve seen maps of the New World, constable,” the inspector said.

  “Yes, sir.” He flushed and cleared his throat. “And there was another attack on a vicar, which startled his horses so badly he was thrown from his cart. Those incidents both had witnesses, and everyone described the assailant the same way: with springs on his feet, the wings of a demon, and he spat blue flame.”

  “But this one did not have wings,” Temperance put in. “And the flame of his eyes was orange.”

  Newberry paused for a moment, looking at her, and she remembered that they had spoken of this once, with him standing beside her bench. She had known of Spring-Heel Jack, but had not known the full truth of the story until he’d told her.

  Still holding her gaze, he continued, “There were other sightings, and the description always the same. The newssheets speculated that he was a man who’d lost his legs in an accident and had them replaced with springs—which turned him into a madman, bounding up and down the island and Manhattan City. Everyone else held the opinion that he was the devil.”

  “Only bounders would be so terrified of prosthetics and demons,” the inspector said. “And what was it truly?”

  Newberry looked a trifle disappointed—and Temperance had to admit she was, too. This had been one of her favorite shiver-tales as a child, but the inspector did not look a bit impressed.

  Though compared to the horrors of the Horde occupation, Temperance supposed a springing man-devil was nothing.

  “Well, sir, no one knew who was behind the attacks until the incident in Cromwell Square. Spring-Heel Jack bounded in front of a countess’s carriage as she was leaving a ball, and the fear gave her the vapors. She didn’t recover for several weeks—and never ventured outside her home again.”

  “So, the lower classes were tormented and no one could stop it. But a countess fainted and the game was up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And someone either pointed a finger or confessed,” the inspector guessed.

  Temperance met Newberry’s eyes again, saw his suppressed smile and had to stifle her own. Truly, this woman could take the fun from everything.

  “Yes, sir. Apparently, a group of young lords—including the countess’s eldest son—had created Spring-Heel Jack on a lark. It was something of a betting club: they made wagers, daring one another to appear in the costume. Points were given based on the number of mentions the incident generated in the newssheets.”

  “A lark? Did they have nothing better to do with their time?” The inspector shook her head. “And now so many bounders are returning to England. Are these pranks what everyone in London has to look forward to?”

  Temperance couldn’t say. She only wondered, “What is a bounder?’

  “It is us,” Newberry said.

  The inspector’s mouth suddenly closed. Her lips pressed together, and embarrassment darkened her cheeks. “Yes. I’m sorry. But it has been very frustrating watching the people who fled England two hundred years ago return now—and so many of them filled with ideas of how to better us, and so eager to tell us how improper we are.”

  “I see,” Temperance said. She understood all too well how maddening that could be—particularly when she had done nothing that was improper.

  “But I was not thinking of you in this way. It has been the titled families returning for their estates and Parliament seats, most often. Also, I have heard that Constable Newberry was let go from the Manhattan City police force for improper behavior, so in my mind, I had already excluded you both from that category.”

  A beet could not have been redder than Newberry. “You’ve heard that, sir?”

  “Yes. But don’t worry, constable. Unless you did something truly awful, such as forcing yourself upon a woman, I shall not hold it against you—and Superintendent Hale has already assured me that your character is sound.”

  It took her husband a few moments to find his voice, and Temperance could hear the roughness in it, the shame. “Her mother knew mine,” he said. “And Hale’s husband was the reason I joined the force.”

  “I heard he was a good man.” The inspector looked to the sketch again. “This club of bored rich boys—are there many of these sorts of clubs in Manhattan City, constable?”

  “Yes, sir. Not of that sort, exactly, but there’s a fair number of brotherhoods and such. Most are dedicated to remembering the glory of England—or restoring that glory.”

  “So they sit and talk.”

  “Mostly, sir.”

  “Then we can likely rule out a repeat of this Spring-Heel Jack incident.”

  “It does seem unlikely, sir.”

  “All right.” She looked out the window as a rattling, huffing wagon pulled up to the end of the alley. “There are the body collectors. Have you anyone to stay with you, Mrs. Newberry?”

  She glanced to Newberry, then to the guild building across the alley. “Perhaps we could wake Miss Lockstitch?”

  “No,” the inspector broke in, apparently changing her mind. “Stay here, constable. He knew he was seen; he might return. I will need you in the morning at the station, and we will go and speak with the victim’s guild, discover who she is, and show this sketch around. Perhaps someone will recognize this machine. Walk with me down to the wagon, constable.”

  Temperance peered through the window, where two men had begun rolling the body in a cloth. They hadn’t even restrained her first. “Don’t they fear she’ll wake up on the way?”

  The inspector paused. “Who will wake up?”

  “The woman who was killed. They are only rolling her into a sheet. Will that stop a zombie?”

  Brows arching high, the inspector looked to Newberry, who blushed. “I confess, sir, I wondered the same thing.”

  The woman’s gaze suddenly flattened, her mouth compressing into a tight line. “You think she’ll become a zombie, constable?”

  “Yes,” Temperance answered for him. “Won’t she? This is what we’ve been told. What we’ve always been told.”

  “And I’ve been told that bounders believed this, but didn’t think they were that stupid. But they are?”

  “Apparently, sir.”

  “By the starry sky…then listen to me now: She won’t wake up. None of us will, unless we’re infected with different bugs when they bite us. The zombie bugs are different.” Lifting her face to the ceiling, the inspector heaved an exasperated breath, then turned for the door again. “All right. Constable, with me. And do not speak unless I ask you to, and until you’ve proved yourself again.”r />
  3

  When they reached the alley, the inspector said, “My family lives at Number Eight, Leicester Square, constable. Tomorrow morning, you will be there with your wife. My father will infect you both.”

  Dear God, he wished it could be so. “I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot. Not unless she agrees, and I won’t do it unless she does.”

  She stopped and gave him a hard look. “Do you realize that your wife is dying, Newberry?”

  Just hearing the words made it impossible to breathe, as if an iron fist grabbed his heart, pulped it into nothing.

  The inspector must have seen. Her face softened. “She must be infected, constable. And you as well. The black lung kills more New Worlders in London than any other cause, and it would be easily preventable if they weren’t so damned afraid of the bugs.”

  “I would, sir. But she’s afraid. Terrified. I can’t force her into it. I have already forced too much.”

  But he would if it came to the end, Newberry knew. If her condition continued to worsen, he’d force her to take the injection. It would be an unforgiveable trespass, but if she lived, he would never regret it.

  “You’ve forced too much? How so, constable?”

  “She’d never have come here on her own. She’d never have married me. So I compromised her.”

  Her eyes suddenly burned with anger. Her voice was flat and cold. “What does that mean, constable?”

  “I kissed her.”

  The inspector didn’t immediately respond, as if waiting. Then her lips pursed. “You kissed her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they made her marry you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Incredible.” Shaking her head, she started toward the wagon again. “Bounders are simply incredible. I thought you must have shagged her, and that was stupid enough a reason, especially if she’d been forced into a bed by the man they wanted her to marry. I am glad you did not tell me that, at least. But compelled to marry for a kiss?”

  Newberry had stopped in place, choking on his embarrassment and shock. He’d never heard such language from a woman—and from an earl’s daughter! Good God, be merciful on her.

  The inspector glanced back, frowning…then suddenly grinned. “Oh, Newberry. After you spend more time with me on the docks, you’ll be saying it, too.”

  “I would never!”

  “Or the act, I suppose?” Her expression suddenly changed to alarm. “By the starry sky, Newberry—do not have an apoplexy! I see that I will have to go easy on you to begin.”

  If she didn’t, Newberry feared he would not live through it. Only through rigid control had he never let such thoughts enter his mind, and she only had to say shag and he was imagining Temperance, the flex of her fingers as she sketched in her book, the feel of her lips and the taste of her heated mouth. If he was always filled with lust, how could he return home? She would see it, and that would be too much. On top of everything else, it would be too much if she hated him for that, too.

  “Please go very easy, sir.”

  “I will. Go on back home, then, constable. I’ll see you at my house in the morning, regardless of whether you convince her.” She sped up a bit, and when her brother Henry turned to face her, she called out, “The rumors about bounders and the zombies are true!”

  Their laughter followed him back to the mews.

  *** *** ***

  When her husband returned, Temperance was not hiding in her room. She sat on the sofa with her legs tucked under her blanket, her mind racing frantically.

  “Is it true?” she asked the moment he came through the door. “Do you think it is true?”

  He didn’t immediately answer, taking the armchair opposite. His bulk filled it, twice the man of any other man she’d met, and all of it solid. She could still feel his strong arms around her, holding her close to his chest.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I’ll ask to see the body tomorrow. In that way, we could be certain whether it has risen or not.”

  “But even without that evidence, you believe the inspector was telling the truth.”

  “Yes.” He rubbed his big hand over his face. “Before we were here, how could we know? But there are always people who die and are not found until later. Several every night in a city this size. Why have they not risen? If it only takes one bite to spread the infection, even two or three would devastate London. Yet no one takes precautions against them. Windows are not boarded up, people walk freely at night. At the station, I was given no instructions about what to do if I came across one—yet they have told me to be wary of ratcatchers and of the eels in the river. And so it’s only sensible to believe that there aren’t any zombies here.”

  That seemed sensible to Temperance, too. She met his eyes and saw the same bemusement that she felt. All of this time, they’d believed that everyone in England became ravenous zombies after their deaths. Everyone she knew in Manhattan City had believed it, but knowing that their ignorance had been shared with thousands of other people did not make the embarrassment upon learning the truth any less. The inspector had not laughed at thousands of people; she had laughed at them.

  Temperance was glad that he’d been with her to share it. Split between them, the humiliation was easier to bear.

  She saw more in his eyes now, too—the speculation, the same as hers. In a low voice, he said, “If it’s true, then you wouldn’t become one after taking the injection.”

  Would it be so easy? Her heart filled with hope, with fear. “I wouldn’t be able to return to Manhattan City after I was infected, though. Not without a bribe for the officials.”

  “A bribe as large as your inheritance?” He held her gaze. “I have saved it for you, in the event that was what you wished to do with it.”

  Her heart stuttered, and she pushed her hand to her chest. “You have?”

  “Yes.” He rose to his feet and started to his room, but paused at the end of her sofa. “But I wonder, Temperance: After everything that occurred, what would you want to go back to?”

  He closed the door quietly behind him, and left her wondering exactly the same thing. What was left for her in Manhattan City? Her family had blamed her for Newberry’s kiss and turned their backs. Her friends had quickly become distant. She wouldn’t find useful employment—and she would need it if her inheritance was used up in bribes.

  And there was another question to wonder about, too. Newberry had lived a full life in Manhattan City. But if he had not married her for the inheritance, then what on earth had drawn him to London?

  *** *** ***

  Newberry had left before Temperance rose the next morning, late, after hours of being unable to sleep. Miss Lockstitch came, and their conversation was filled with the murder. Several of her guild mates had woken at the sound of Temperance’s scream, and a few had seen glimpses of the machine—though, of course, no one had come out while the inspector was there and reported what they’d seen.

  Temperance drew another sketch, and Miss Lockstitch pulled her embroidery from her large pelisse, but before she could fit the frame over her knee, Temperance stopped her, gasping, and left her sofa for a closer look.

  It was astounding work. A delicate, intricate design of flowers and leaves, the stitches so tiny they were all but invisible. “This is beautiful, Miss Lockstitch. I’ve never seen the equal.”

  Smiling and pink cheeked, the young woman said, “Thank you.”

  “Do you create the design yourself, or only embroider it?”

  “I create it.”

  “It’s stunning.” Temperance could not have said whether it was worth losing a hand over, but she wasn’t blind to the pride and joy the woman was feeling now. Perhaps those feelings were worth some pain, some loss. She returned to her sofa. “As part of my governess duties, I used to teach two girls how to stitch small items, and I barely had the patience for it. To see this, to know it was done in one day…it is simply amazing. Your clients must be spoiled.”

  Miss Locksti
tch flashed a grin. “I make them pay for it.”

  Temperance had to laugh. “As you should.”

  Setting the frame over her knee, and her hand over the frame, the needles began clicking away. “Mrs. Newberry, the other girls in the house and I had wondered…you were a governess. Did you also teach reading?”

  “In several languages, yes.”

  “Do you think—when your illness passes—you might agree to teach us?”

  When her illness passed. Not since her second decline had that been a hope. But even if she was infected, even if the bugs cured her, would she stay in this flat with Newberry?

  Temperance didn’t know. But she could make a promise. “If I am here, I will,” she said.

  *** *** ***

  Newberry returned earlier than she expected. It was only just after noon when he came into the flat, scooping his domed hat from his head. He gave a polite greeting to Miss Lockstitch, and when his gaze met Temperance’s, she rose to speak with him.

  “Have you discovered who she was? Have you discovered who he was?”

  “We know who she was, yes—she was with the butcher’s guild. We still don’t know who he is, but we’re looking for him.”

  But her husband wasn’t looking for him, he was here— Ah. “The inspector worries that he’ll come back for me.”

  “Not only the inspector,” he said, and she couldn’t speak for a moment, until she noticed that Miss Lockstitch had been gathering her things.

  “Abigail,” she said, “perhaps we will take that walk tomorrow.”

  “I look forward to it.” She gave Newberry a nod as she passed. “Good day, constable.”

  Temperance returned to her sofa while Newberry went to the window, watching the alley until Miss Lockstitch made it back to her home. After a few moments, he hooked his hat beside the door, unbuckled his uniform jacket. “A walk?”

  “A cab, in truth—at least for most of the distance. She said the Embankment is lovely, and I don’t think I could manage the Temple Fair, unless they have a great many benches throughout.”