Wyrde and Wayward

by Charlotte E. English

  Chapter Seventeen

  In fact, it proved to be Gussie’s unhappy lot to speak to the cook, Lord Werth recollecting that more important matters awaited his attention than wrangling over provender, and his wife too occupied in scolding her son, her husband, and her ancestors to soon turn her attention to the matter.

  Gussie did not ordinarily object to arranging the menu, food being a topic of some interest to her. But the conversation with Mrs. Gosling did nothing to brighten Gussie’s morning. And since she had no desire to interrupt Mrs. Gosling’s work while she was at the same time adding to it, she refrained from summoning that harassed woman above-stairs, and descended to the kitchen herself.

  ‘How many people?’ said the cook, only half attending to Gussie, for the kitchen maid at her elbow required a supervisory eye as she whipped egg whites for a cake, and Mrs. Gosling herself was engaged in crimping a pie crust.

  ‘I do not precisely know, Mrs. Gosling, and I am sorry, for I quite realise how difficult it must be for you to cater for an imprecise number of estranged Werths. If I were to tell you that my uncle places no restrictions whatsoever upon his purse, and that for the time being you are free to order whatever you like, and in any quantity—’

  ‘That is gratifying, to be sure, but scarcely to the purpose,’ said Mrs. Gosling. ‘I can’t make an “imprecise” number of pies. And of what order are these estranged Werths, I’d like to know? Have you given any thought to that? You won’t want me serving all the master’s delicacies to his inferiors.’

  As it happened, Gussie had not given that particular question any thought, but Mrs. Gosling was of course correct. Any scions so entirely forgotten by the family were, in all likelihood, not in the same rank of life as his lordship. Not that such a consideration was likely to weigh with Gussie, nor, she felt persuaded, with Lord Werth. But that others might object to such a jumble, there could be no doubt.

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘They must be well fed,’ she said firmly. ‘I do not imagine his lordship will draw any such distinction when it comes to mealtimes; pray make everything that is best. There will certainly be Mr. and Mrs Wheldrake in attendance, with their daughter, and Mrs. Thannibour, whose tastes you will of course be familiar with. If you require additional staff, please send word to her ladyship and we will arrange to take another girl.’

  Mrs. Gosling may have permitted herself a small noise of scepticism, which Gussie thought too justified for reproach. It was not that Lord Werth was likely to begrudge the expense; more that a full complement of servants for the Towers was not so easy to procure or maintain, there being much said in the villages about ghouls and horrid creatures, and thunderstorms at all hours, so loud you’d hardly hear yourself think, and so on. The second housemaid still refused to go anywhere near Theo, and a scullery-maid had resigned her post upon finding herself obliged to scour a succession of laundry-tubs, which had been used to serve meat to Lord Maundevyle.

  The management of the Werth households offered all manner of unusual challenges, and Gussie foresaw a great many more about to descend upon them all.

  She might cheerfully have brained Lord Felix, if she thought it would do any good. His erstwhile lordship had precious few brains left; his abominable conduct was proof enough of that. Upon receiving the news from Theo, she had entertained brief fantasies of filling Lord Felix’s grave with beetles, and her cousin’s bed as well, before regretfully abandoning the idea. She would be too busy arranging for all these extra Werths to be fed, watered and housed to have time for sweet, brutal revenge.

  ‘Just do the best you can, Mrs. Gosling,’ Gussie finally sighed. ‘Complaints may be sent to St. Mary’s churchyard, the second grave from the end of the third row.’

  ‘The one with the horrid wolf carved into the headstone?’ said the cook.

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘I know it.’ Mrs. Gosling subjected her pastry to a particularly violent beating.

  Gussie spared a hope that she might subject the occupant of the second grave, third row to a similar such beating, and smiled. Not for nothing had the imposing Mrs. Gosling held the position of head cook in Lord Werth’s household for nearly twenty years. Even Lord Felix, Gussie fancied, might look a little blank, when obliged to explain himself to her.

  She left Mrs. Gosling to her pastry and her mutterings, and took herself off to see the housekeeper.

  That Gussie’s Aunt Wheldrake should be among the first to arrive was of no surprise, for she and her family lived only ten miles away, and were forever popping in on some pretext or another.

  That she should prove disconcerted and displeased by the summons was of little surprise either. Her approach being announced, some minutes in advance, by the rumblings of a severe storm, and a lashing of rain against the windows, Gussie steeled herself for another unpleasant interview.

  In the event, it was Lord Werth who bore the brunt of his sister’s displeasure.

  ‘Werth!’ she intoned, upon sweeping through the great doors, trailed by roiling wisps of storm-cloud and an earth-shaking boom. ‘What can you mean by such a compulsion? It is not seemly!’

  Lord Werth, having likewise heard the approach of disaster, had not chosen to shut himself away. To Gussie’s relief and respect, he had stationed himself in the main hall, and awaited Aunt Wheldrake’s approach with a serene and enviable patience. Now he bowed, rather formally, to his sister and said: ‘The manner of it has not been what I would like, but on a matter of such grave importance, Lucretia, we surely could not have left you out?’

  ‘Grave importance?’ said she, stopping inside the door. ‘Why, what is amiss?’

  ‘There is a dragon,’ he said.

  ‘No!’ said Aunt Wheldrake. ‘Tell me it has not eaten Theo!’

  Lord Werth blinked. ‘Not to my knowledge. Indeed, they appear to be friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ Aunt Wheldrake faltered.

  ‘You will find Lord Maundevyle in the shrubbery,’ said Lord Werth. ‘Or possibly, on the shrubbery.’

  Aunt Wheldrake stared.

  ‘The dragon,’ Gussie supplied. ‘The fourth Viscount Maundevyle. I believe he does prefer to be addressed by his full title.’

  Aunt Wheldrake for once finding nothing to say, she looked from her brother to Gussie with an expression of wondering suspicion, as though she imagined some prank were being played upon her.

  Quietly, her thunderings receded.

  ‘The shrubbery?’ she said.

  ‘The shrubbery,’ Lord Werth confirmed.

  Away went Aunt Wheldrake, her husband and snake-haired daughter trailing in her wake.

  ‘That was not so very bad?’ Gussie ventured, when they had gone.

  Lord Werth permitted himself a small smile. ‘Lucretia always did hate to be left out of anything. And I never knew a woman more prone to curiosity — except, perhaps, yourself.’

  Finding this too accurate a portrait for complaint, Gussie bowed her head. ‘Ah — he is not really on the shrubbery, I suppose?’

  ‘One might venture so far as to expect precision of movement from a twenty-foot dragon,’ said Lord Maundevyle. ‘If one is accustomed to disappointment.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Gussie, and went immediately to the shrubbery.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Some three days passed before the Towers received a visitor unknown to Gussie.

  He came up the driveway on foot, his somewhat shabby overcoat proclaiming him a man of no particular means, but his posture that of a man accustomed to command. Gussie, perceiving him from an upstairs window, paused to watch his approach, intrigued, for he had an arresting appearance. He could not be above forty in years, she thought, and perhaps rather less; he had an untidy shock of dark hair, a build that contrived to be bulky, but without running to fat, and a long, stamping stride suggestive of either some great annoyance, or a touch of bravado.

  When she ran lightly downstairs, she found herself the only member of the family in the hall as a footma
n admitted the newcomer.

  He came inside with a heavy tread, the footman having received orders to admit anybody who presented themselves at the door, immediately and without question. As the man discreetly withdrew to summon his lordship, Gussie took stock of their visitor.

  He returned her stare calmly, with a question in his rather cold blue eyes.

  ‘It is not my place to welcome you to Werth Towers, sir,’ said Gussie, making her curtsey. ‘My uncle and aunt will soon do so, I am sure. But in case you are wondering who you have run into, I am Miss Werth.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Should you not have waited upstairs, or some properly missish thing?’

  He spoke, to Gussie’s startlement, with a mild Scottish burr, which somehow robbed his words of some of their offence. ‘I ought to have, of course,’ she admitted.

  ‘Then why didn’t you?’

  Gussie might have been goaded into offence after all, save that he spoke as though he were more curious than judging, and he regarded her with an air of keen interest.

  ‘When you have been here a little longer,’ she replied, ‘you will learn that there is no degree of adhering-to-propriety, or of engaging-in-expected-behaviours, that will make the Wyrded Werths acceptable to society.’

  ‘Hm,’ said he.

  ‘And there being no mutual acquaintance to introduce us, and your presence here having come about by means which no etiquette has yet been contrived to cover, I am persuaded I might be forgiven my curiosity,’ Gussie continued. ‘Why should I exile myself upstairs, when everything that is interesting is going on below?’

  He turned in a slow circle in the middle of the hall, his arms spread wide. ‘By all means, look your fill at the outlandish novelty,’ he said. ‘I hope I don’t disappoint.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Gussie politely. ‘I am poorly supplied with cousins, or at least those of an age to hold a conversation. I have already engaged to be enchanted with every new acquisition of the kind.’

  ‘Cousins?’ said the newcomer, with a contraction of the brow. ‘If you are my cousin, ma’am, perhaps you would be so kind as to explain what I am doing here?’

  ‘Ah—’ said Gussie, but since the footman at that moment returned, with, remarkably, her aunt and uncle in tow, she was not obliged to confuse (or annoy) him further; that honour fell to his lordship.

  Her distant new cousin made his bow to Lord and Lady Werth with rather more respect, perhaps due to their age more than to their rank, for he had not seemed to be impressed with Gussie’s. In short order, she discovered him to be a Runner of Bow Street, come into the east on some business he had been obliged to leave unconcluded, due to the insistent nature of the summons. And his name was not Werth, but Ballantine.

  ‘As honoured as I am to make my bow to you, sir,’ he said to Lord Werth — with, to Gussie’s ear, a trace of sarcasm — ‘I hope I shan’t be staying long? I do have business to attend to.’

  ‘The capture of a daring thief, I hope?’ Gussie put in. ‘And there will be a great chase, and you will make a heroic arrest. Naturally, we shall not long detain you from such adventures.’

  Mr. Ballantine regarded her again with that keen, searching look, and Gussie was unable to tell whether he approved of her or not.

  Not that it signified. No one ever did approve of her, quite, and it had not much inconvenienced her before.

  She smiled.

  ‘You are not, by chance, much acquainted with dragons?’ said Lady Werth, and at the word “dragon” Mr. Ballantine’s attention shifted abruptly to her ladyship.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

  ‘Dragons,’ she repeated.

  ‘We have acquired one, you see,’ Gussie put in helpfully. ‘And since he is both reluctant to retain his draconic state and steadily destroying my aunt’s shrubbery, we are desirous of a cure.’

  ‘Is that why I am brought here?’ said Mr. Ballantine.

  ‘In a manner of speaking. We were expecting another dragon,’ said Gussie. ‘You do not happen to be in the habit of form-shifting, I suppose?’

  ‘I am not,’ he said, flatly.

  Gussie waited. She longed to enquire whether he was himself Wyrded, and if so, how; but while Society had yet to develop many particular rules governing the conduct of the Wyrded few (and generally resolved any incipient problems by pretending they did not exist), there was one unspoken agreement: to enquire directly into the nature of another’s Wyrde was the height of rudeness. She had spoken in jest, and could do no more; Mr. Ballantine must begin the subject himself, or his status as cursed (or otherwise) must remain forever a mystery.

  Mr. Ballantine did speak, but not on the subject of his own Wyrde. ‘Forgive me,’ he growled, ‘but if you’re tired of the dragon you already have, why on earth would you go looking for another one?’

  ‘In the hopes,’ said Lord Werth, ‘that she may be able to assist Lord Maundevyle.’

  ‘Or at least get him out of our hair,’ Gussie put in, ignoring the quelling look her aunt subsequently directed at her.

  ‘Lord Maundevyle?’ said Mr. Ballantine.

  ‘The fourth viscount,’ explained Gussie, and foresaw that she would likely be repeating herself on that subject rather often.

  Mr. Ballantine, apparently bereft of words, did not seem disposed to break the ensuing silence. In the end, Lady Werth did so. ‘Please accept our apologies for bringing you here unnecessarily,’ she said. ‘If you would like to rest yourself before returning to your business, a room shall be prepared for you. And if you will join us in the parlour, refreshments shall be provided at once.’

  ‘I would be glad of both,’ said Mr. Ballantine. ‘And after that, if you’ve no objection, I would like to see the dragon.’

  Whether Mr. Ballantine was impressed by the dragon or not, Gussie could not tell, for he regarded Lord Maundevyle’s noble bulk with so collected a demeanour and so unreadable an expression as to keep his private thoughts wholly hidden.

  They found Lord Maundevyle reposing himself at the far end of the shrubbery, half of his scaled body sprawled through a once-handsome profusion of lavender bushes, the other half stretched out upon the lawns beyond. The scent of crushed lavender stalks and shed blossoms was so thick that Gussie sneezed, causing Lord Maundevyle to regard her through one, half-opened eye.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, fancying the expression affronted, ‘but you have set up a tremendous stink.’

  The eye closed.

  Mr. Ballantine, paused at a safe distance of some ten feet from the prone dragon, cast a questioning look at Gussie.

  ‘He is safe enough,’ she said, answering whatever she could decipher of the Runner’s appeal. ‘He has yet to devour a person, that we know of, and contents himself well enough with mutton.’

  ‘I’m fond of a dish of mutton myself,’ said Mr. Ballantine.

  ‘Delightful that you have so much in common,’ Gussie murmured. ‘You will be such friends.’

  Mr. Ballantine’s only response was a sideways look, a mix of annoyance and bemusement, and Gussie reminded herself to hold her tongue. Her new cousin was not, as yet, accustomed to her ways.

  She stood demure and mute while Mr. Ballantine ventured forth, and — to her secret amusement as well as approval — made a respectful bow to Lord Maundevyle. ‘My lord,’ he said, loudly and clearly. ‘It is my duty to arrest you for an unsanctioned shift into a form deemed hazardous to the public, without the possession of the proper license. It is a violation of His Majesty’s Law.’

  Lady Werth gave a startled exclamation, and started forward — only to stop, and glare frostily at the Runner.

  ‘What?’ said Gussie in disbelief. ‘What law?’

  Mr. Ballantine stood, tall and firm, in the face of the general outcry. ‘Last year,’ he said, ‘a son of a House previously unknown to suffer any affliction by the Wyrde changed suddenly from his human form into that of a wyvern, and went rampaging across London. He ate four people, injured many others, and destr
oyed a number of houses and other buildings. He also caused eight carriage-accidents, and rendered a section of public road unusable for three days. It was later decreed that a proper license must be held by all those proposing to shift their form; their identities must be registered with His Majesty’s government; and the proper supervision and accountability must thereby be maintained.’ He presumed to fix Lord Werth with a disapproving eye, and added: ‘I find it remarkable that the most notoriously Wyrded family in the kingdom should not have heard of it.’

  ‘We do not leave the Towers much,’ Gussie said. ‘On account of that notoriety, you know.’

  Mr. Ballantine’s cold blue eyes swept briefly over her, but he did not reply.

  ‘I stopped taking the London papers,’ said Lord Werth, though he did not elaborate as to why. ‘You must understand, Lord Maundevyle’s transformation was sudden and unexpected.’

  ‘But he ought to have registered himself immediately.’

  ‘He might have,’ put in Gussie, ‘if he were aware of the law.’

  ‘Ignorance as to the law is rarely accepted as reason enough to break it,’ said Mr. Ballantine.

  ‘And if,’ she went on, ‘he were in possession of hands and fingers enough to do so.’

  Mr. Ballantine stared. ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Have you ever seen a dragon sign papers?’

  ‘What about when he’s not a dragon?’

  ‘If you happen to know of a way for him to alter his present state, I dare say we should all be delighted to hear of it.’

  ‘You mean he is stuck.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Mr. Ballantine regarded Lord Maundevyle’s obliviously sleeping form in silence.

  ‘His family—’ he began.

  ‘Little that is rational is to be expected from his family,’ Gussie said firmly. ‘Why else do you imagine he is here, and not at home at Starminster?’

  Mr. Ballantine developed the pinched look of a man encountering an insoluble problem.