Reticence

by Gail Carriger

  “Until Tasherit gets here, of course.”

  “And how does she fit with the crew?”

  “Our werelioness,” said Spoo proudly. “She’s very fierce. She’s basically first mate. Lady Captain has her in charge of military matters.”

  “The Spotted Custard isna a pleasure floater? Why military matters?” Arsenic had hoped to leave the army behind.

  “Well, theoretically we’re all play and no teeth. But we tend to get into messes.” Spoo grinned. “That’s why they decided to hire a doctor.”

  “Wouldna be cheaper to avoid the messes in the first place?”

  “You’d think.”

  “What sort of messes?”

  “Oh, you know, all sorts.”

  Elusive child. Arsenic decided not to push, she was in it now and would likely find out soon enough.

  Virgil, who’d been silently trudging behind them, muttered something about messes being hell on wardrobes and wouldn’t it be nice if they just went and visited a place for a change and didn’t try to fix anything? Spoo ignored him. Arsenic gave him a sympathetic glance.

  The rest of the guests slowly trickled in. Arsenic kept feeling she ought to know who was who, because no doubt most of them were supernaturally or politically significant.

  Had she not recently returned from abroad. Had she cared about London society. Had she paid better attention to her mother’s lessons.

  Well, she hadn’t.

  So Arsenic stuck close to Spoo, who did her best to explain but really didn’t give a toss for the mucky-mucks. Spoo ended up playing cards with Virgil, the decklings, and several sooties. Arsenic blethered on with the sooties for a bit about the dangers of boiler work. Everyone from Arsenic’s new ship seemed perfectly civil.

  The only one she hadn’t any luck getting to know was an aggressive ginger female with a fierce expression. She was scrappy and grumpy and Spoo declined to introduce them on the following grounds …

  “You know what a wood louse is, Doctor?”

  “Aye, I do.”

  “The prof would come over all sniffy.” Spoo nodded at Professor Tunstell, who was attempting to assist an elderly matron to climb up onto Bob, without anyone noticing he was being nice. “He’d say a wood louse is an intransigent terrestrial isopod crustacean inclined to consume deceased flora.”

  Arsenic didn’t really know Professor Tunstell that well and yet, “That seems exactly like something he’d say.”

  “Well, it’s also an accurate description of The Spotted Custard’s sainted head greaser, Miss Aggie Phinkerlington. Only imagine the deceased flora is basically all human joy.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes. She’s upset with me and Lady Captain, most of the time.”

  “Why?”

  “Presumably because we continue to exist and she’d prefer we didn’t.”

  Arsenic gave the greaser an assessing look. “She looks like she has indigestion.” Arsenic wondered if the woman’s mean spirit was the result of severe dyspepsia. Perhaps there was a medicinal solution to her ill-temper?

  “That’s the human joy she keeps swallowing. Disagrees with her.”

  “She dinna sound like a verra pleasant person.”

  Spoo’s small face was morose. “Unfortunately, she’s a dear friend of our Mr Quesnel, and he’s aces. Even if he’s got no taste. She’s also awful good at being head greaser.”

  Arsenic nodded. “So we keep her but try to avoid her?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Will do.” Really, Spoo was a fount of useful information.

  The decklings resumed their game. Arsenic decided it was a little odd to be the only adult palling about with the shipboard youngsters, so took herself off to find Miss Tunstell and ask if she required help with anything. On the way she noticed the hanging lanterns all about were shaped like cheerful ladybugs.

  Miss Tunstell had everything under control. The spread of food was impressive and the flow of drink excessive. A brass band tooted enthusiastically on a special rotating platform. The newly wed Mr and Mrs Lefoux danced sedately below in a specially designed grotto, along with the more civilized attendees.

  Miss Tunstell looked hopefully at Arsenic. “Are you enjoying yourself, Dr Ruthven?”

  “Very much so, such a varied guest list.”

  “It’s a bit of a crush, but between them, Rue and Quesnel know half of London.”

  “So it would appear.”

  Miss Tunstell frowned in sudden concern. “Rue is good for dancing? It’s not overly energetic?”

  “How far along is she?”

  “Perhaps six months?”

  Arsenic smiled at the fretting of a dear friend. “She’ll be fine. A little light exercise is beneficial at this stage. Ensure she drinks water and sits occasionally or her feet may swell.”

  “Oh, I’m so chuffed you’re coming aboard, Doctor.”

  “Was that one of the reasons?”

  “It’s one of my reasons. Rue’s a bit wild. Hopefully she’ll listen to you. We aren’t sure, you see, what the baby will be.”

  “You mean boy or girl? There’s no way to know.”

  “No. I mean preternatural, metanatural, or simply natural.”

  Arsenic started. “Oh.” What’s a metanatural? “I see I have some research to do on the state of our captain, before I come aboard.”

  Miss Tunstell looked approving. “Ask Percy. That is, Professor Tunstell. He keeps all the latest papers, even though abnormal biology isn’t his particular sphere of interest.”

  Arsenic nodded. “Most births, in my experience, are similar, regardless of the end result.” In the army she’d assisted with delivery for camp followers, hunting hounds, and even a horse. She wasn’t perturbed.

  Miss Tunstell’s eye was caught by two newcomers – a matronly older woman in a feathered hat and a slightly less matronly, slightly less older woman in slightly fewer feathers who could only be her daughter.

  “Oh lord,” said Miss Tunstell, “what are they doing here?”

  “Not invited?”

  “Well, yes, of course they were invited. Only I never expected them to actually show up. And so late as to have missed the receiving line. What can they be thinking? That’s Rue’s maternal grandmother, Mrs Loontwill. She’s awful. And that’s Rue’s aunt, Evylin something-or-other. She’s less awful.”

  So far as Arsenic could tell, the two ladies seemed to represent London’s bog standard lesser-aristocratic snob, displaying no greater assumed superiority or bad taste than anyone else of the breed.

  Then Mrs Loontwill opened her mouth, speaking loudly to her daughter. “I see my granddaughter will let anyone attend her wedding, even the rabble and the poor.” Mrs Loontwill was glaring at Spoo and her fellows, who let out a roar of amusement at something someone said. Cards were being tossed at the offender’s head in appreciation. They looked happy.

  Arsenic frowned.

  Miss Tunstell’s hand was to her mouth in distress.

  “Mother,” said Evylin, “she is Alexia’s daughter, what did you expect? Quality?”

  “Of course. You’re right, dear, but Lord Akeldama is purported to have taste. This, well, this is beneath contempt!” Mrs Loontwill sneered at Vauxhall Bob and its occupants, as if they were something the fishmonger tossed.

  Certainly there was a wide spectrum present, from sooties to scientists, aristocrats to actors, vampires to werewolves. The clothing ranged too, from high fashion to kilts to turbans. It was eclectic, but Arsenic couldn’t see anything worth sneering at.

  “Perhaps it is a fancy-dress wedding?” Mrs Loontwill contemptuously regarded Tasherit’s silk robes and Anitra’s embroidered scarves as the two women helped stabilize the wedding cake against the garden’s movements.

  “Oh no, what’s Aggie doing?” Miss Tunstell panicked and moved as close as she dared to the newcomers. Arsenic followed.

  The surly head greaser took up position, barring Mrs Loontwill and daughter from further entering the gar
den. Her arms were crossed.

  “This can’t be good,” Miss Tunstell whispered, clutching Arsenic’s arm for support.

  Aggie leaned into Mrs Loontwill’s bonnet-sphere and began hissing at her in low angry tones.

  “Oh no.” Miss Tunstell dropped Arsenic’s arm and began wringing her hands. “Oh! Oh no no no. Aggie, please don’t push the bride’s grandmo… And there she goes!”

  The head greaser shoved Mrs Loontwill hard in the shoulder, which caused the older woman to stumble backwards, and fall into a nearby fountain with a tremendous splash.

  Aggie Phinkerlington stormed away and Miss Tunstell rushed to the fallen matriarch. Arsenic followed, clutching her medical kit. The fall looked to be more embarrassing than injurious, but one never could tell.

  “Oh, Mrs Loontwill, I do apologize. I’ve no idea what came over our head greaser!” Miss Tunstell fluttered in horror.

  “Are you injured, madam? I’m a doctor.” Arsenic bent to perform a cursory examination while the Loontwill in question wallowed and sputtered.

  “Doctor? You’re female. You can’t possibly be a doctor. Get off me, chit.”

  Arsenic stopped trying to help and backed away.

  Mrs Loontwill extracted herself from the fountain with the aid of her daughter. “Primrose Tunstell, I expected better than this! Your guest list is not at all exclusive. You went so far as to allow that branch of the family to attend!”

  “That branch? What? That branch of whose family?”

  “Mine, of course. My maiden name is Phinkerlington. Didn’t you know? The family went terribly downhill around my first marriage. Lost one of my brothers to a failed bite and the other to a ballooning accident. Haven’t spoken to the Phinkerlingtons in years and here I find a Phinkerlington at my granddaughter’s wedding. Shocking!”

  “Well, that explains a lot.” Miss Tunstell looked thoughtful.

  “You’ll have her removed immediately?” pressed Mrs Loontwill.

  Miss Tunstell pursed her lips. “Aggie is an excellent greaser and a sterling member of our crew. She’s a sourpuss but she’s our sourpuss.” She regarded Mrs Loontwill’s damp dress. “You’re quite soaked, Mrs Loontwill. It can’t be comfortable for you in this chill evening air.”

  “You’ll simply have to close over the garden and increase the temperature until I’m dry, won’t you, girl?”

  “Oh, will I? The entire garden? For you? And what about the werewolves? They prefer open air.”

  “Werewolves? Werewolves! Who cares about werewolves? And you’ll be throwing that horrible violent redheaded menace of a Phinkerlington out as well, preferably when the garden is at full height.”

  “I will, will I?” Miss Tunstell crossed her arms and looked headmistress-ish. “Oh, Tash, good, there you are. Mrs Loontwill, do you know Tasherit Sekhmet? The Spotted Custard’s head of security and resident werecat?”

  “Werecat? Werecat! Don’t be ridiculous, child. There’s no such thing as werecats.”

  “I assure you there are. I’ve intimate regular acquaintance with their existence.”

  Arsenic was entirely riveted by the drama, as indeed were a great many other guests. A large circle of spectators surrounded them.

  The captain and her new husband, however, continued dancing in apparent obliviousness. Or more likely wilful ignorance.

  Miss Tunstell turned to Miss Sekhmet, who Arsenic had to assume really was a werecat. She, too, had never heard of one, but she’d heard rumours of their discovery. Everyone in the scientific community had. As they’d heard of weremonkeys. There were supposed to be excellent papers on both. Probably written by a certain overly handsome redheaded professor.

  Miss Sekhmet turned on Mrs Loontwill. The werecat’s lip curled as if she wanted to hiss. “You’re moist, madam.”

  “That female pushed me into a fountain!” Mrs Loontwill gestured widely, although Aggie Phinkerlington had long since disappeared.

  “Aggie,” Miss Tunstell explained.

  Miss Sekhmet gave an elegant little tut. “Aggie is like that.” She looked Mrs Loontwill up and down. “Difficult to know if you deserved it or not, with her. But in either case, the gardens will be lifting soon. You’d best climb down, go home, and get dry, madam.”

  “You’re asking me to leave? Me?”

  The goddess in silken robes had a toothy and not at all nice smile. “Yes, you. Go.” Hers was the expression of a cat that could not lash her tail, but really wanted to.

  “But…”

  “Hurry along now.” The werecat stepped forward. “Scat.”

  Apparently deciding on retreat as the better part of valour, the daughter grabbed her mother’s arm. “Alexia isn’t here anyway, Mother. What’s the point in staying?”

  “I haven’t congratulated my granddaughter on her match! Not that congratulations are in order, mind you. Imagine marrying a lowly engineer. Lady Akeldama canoodling with a steam wrangler. It’s beneath us all.”

  “What did you say, madam?” That voice belonged to a gentleman even Arsenic could identify, the superlative rove and fashion icon, Lord Akeldama.

  The vampire was covered in silver brocade and ice-blue velvet. Like Mrs Loontwill, he was dripping, only with diamonds in silver filigree and Chantilly lace. Lord Akeldama glittered under the ladybug lamps.

  He was looking at Mrs Loontwill as if he would like to go for her neck.

  Arsenic clutched her kit and prepared to leap to the rescue.

  THREE

  A Conspiracy of Tea

  Mrs Loontwill stepped hastily back as the slim vampire approached her.

  Lord Akeldama reminded Arsenic a little of her mother. Impossibly gorgeous and deadly, his beauty somehow sharp edged. He was the perfect foil for the werecat. She was all tall muscled power, full bloom and without guile. Lord Akeldama was composed entirely of guile.

  He wielded both temperament and appearance with such consummate ease, Arsenic could not help but be impressed.

  “Now, now, Mrs Loontwill, you must feel so very cold and unwell in those damp things. You’ll be wanting to catch a nice dry conveyance home to a warm fire and the bosom of your more dignified family. Surely, we are too energetic and unprincipled for you.”

  Mrs Loontwill looked, for a moment, like she might argue with the vampire.

  Her daughter tugged at her arm. “Please, Mother!”

  “Mrs Loontwill.” Lord Akeldama’s tone became more alluring as he switched tactics. “Such a youthful dress, surely you wish to get it away and treat it for stains as soon as may be?”

  “Oh, yes, well…”

  “It can’t be allowed to dry on your personage. It will be permanently damaged beyond all hope of saving.”

  “Oh, do you believe so?”

  “I know so, Mrs Loontwill. I know so.”

  “Well then, Evylin, why are you detaining us? We should get home immediately!” With which, the odious Mrs Loontwill and her daughter departed Vauxhall Bob forthwith.

  Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. Including Arsenic, who felt she had just gone through a trial by in-laws. And they weren’t even her in-laws.

  Miss Tunstell said in all haste, “Bork, have them raise up the gardens immediately, please! Before anyone else related to Rue comes aboard.”

  “Too late for that,” said a sarcastic Scottish voice from behind Arsenic.

  Arsenic turned. Miss Tunstell did not.

  There was a low round table with four comfortable-looking chairs to one side of the dance grotto. An elaborate tea service was set atop, with Wedgwood cups and saucers and an artfully arranged platter of food gathered from the nearby service à la française.

  Three matronly females had claimed the table as their particular territory, and having eschewed champagne, they were consuming the tea with gusto. They had presumably watched the Loontwill drama with interest and a certain odd approval.

  The oldest of the matrons was bent with age, her hair white. She looked a hundred if she was a day. The other two
were closer to Arsenic’s mother’s age. One had short hair and wore men’s clothing. Spoo had identified her as the groom’s mother, the inventor Madame Lefoux. The last was the Scotswoman who’d spoken. She boasted a set of familiar yellow eyes. So familiar, Arsenic guessed she had been referring to herself as being related to the captain. She was wearing aggressively simple attire, a plaid dress, unadorned except for a large octopus-shaped chatelaine at her waist, from which dangled an assortment of undoubtedly useful objects.

  Born and raised in Scotland, and clearly sharing a sense of practicality with this lady, Arsenic was disposed to like her. She gave a polite nod.

  The oldest one addressed Arsenic directly. “You have your mother’s eyes, girl.”

  Arsenic blinked in surprise. “You are na the first to point it out.”

  “Do you also have her temperament?”

  “I dinna think so. Would you like to test me?”

  “You’re at this wedding because you got the job, then?”

  Arsenic blinked at her. Did they know each other? “I’m the new doctor to The Spotted Custard.”

  The older woman cackled. “Glad that worked out.”

  Madame Lefoux gave the crone an amused look. “This is your doing, ma poule?”

  “You think I’d meddle with Preshea’s get?”

  “I think you’d meddle with anyone you pleased.”

  The Scotswoman poured a tot of something into her tea. “Truer words.”

  The white-haired lady had perceptive green eyes. There weren’t as many lines around them as Arsenic might expect given her age. Was the red at the lash line real or artifice? Arsenic moved closer.

  There were tricks there. Her mother’s tricks. Tricks to make a person look older, seem less interesting, less important. Tricks to make a lady easy to overlook. Arsenic had never used those tricks herself, but she’d sat on her mother’s knee while Preshea applied face paint. Sometimes the makeup was to make her even more beautiful, sometimes to make her ugly, and sometimes to make her old.

  This lady was an intelligencer.

  “You went to finishing school with my mother?” Arsenic wasn’t one to keep her cards close. She also knew, as a rule, that the quickest way to discombobulate a spy was to notice her and call the hand.