The Fatal Engine

by Harriet Smart

  “Thank you, ma’am. It’s an interesting tale, as a matter of fact, and you will like it, for it concerns one of your own folk. In fact, it’s why I came back to this district. But I shall get to that in due course. First you must know what sort of child I was.”

  “An impossible one, I’m sure,” said Hepworth, raising his glass to him.

  “Oh, certainly. I was a terrible trial to my parents. Oh, my dear sweet parents! Imagine, if you will, ladies, a pretty whitewashed cottage in a soft Somerset vale. This was my earliest home and the scene of my happiest memories. It was here that I first dreamt of the knights and ladies who populated my lonely hours. They were my boon companions, my creations, but my father did not care for my prattling fancies and told me that there was no merit in sharing them, and so I did not. But later, when I was grown and living in London, struggling to become a solicitor, I met a fellow of my age who came from this very county. He too was articled at the same great grinding law house as myself, and he was sorely missing his home in the country (as was I). He had grown up in a remote farm house on the moors not so far from here, and he told me of the custom of telling tales by the fire that is so cherished hereabouts. He did not see my propensity to spin such tales as a trouble – no, to him, it was the greatest gift, and he would beg for me to tell him them all. But then the poor boy grew sick, and my tales were the only comfort I could give him.”

  At this Eleanor gave a little gasp and laid her hand on her breast.

  “And then,” Truro went on, “during his last hours, he told me that in his memory I should write them down and make them known to the world. That I should in effect be an author and not a lawyer.”

  Eleanor now laid her hand on his arm for a moment.

  “No...?”

  “How sad,” said Miss Lacey.

  “It is terrible,” said Miss Martha.

  At this moment, Felix noticed Lady Blanchfort slip from the room and he was moved to follow her.

  He could not at once excuse himself, but he did as soon as he was able, and as he came out into the hall, he saw her opening the library door and disappearing inside. He followed her.

  The room had not been opened for the evening, having been used to store the spare furniture, and it was unlit and extremely cool from the lack of a fire. But the curtains were drawn back, letting in the moonlight and the snow light. Lady Blanchfort was standing at the large window with the sash up, making a perfect silhouette.

  He carefully closed the door behind him, and she turned at the sound.

  “You left rather quickly – you are unwell?” he said.

  “No, I’m not – and you really should not concern yourself so much with me – I was just getting a little air. You should go back. You will be missed.”

  “I doubt it. Dear Lord, that man! He likes nothing better than the sound of his own voice. And he is going to treat us to another hour of it, uninterrupted. At least it will be better than blind man’s buff!”

  She said nothing to that, but pushed the sash up a little further.

  “You should go back,” she said.

  “I’d rather not,” he said. “There is only so much punishment I can bear.”

  She glanced back at him.

  “Eleanor is punishing me with him,” he said. “She thinks that I am capable of terrible things, which is probably true enough.”

  It was easy to speak in this strange half-darkness. The wine had unstopped his tongue.

  “To stoke another fire with your discontents is extremely foolish,” she said. “This is dangerous ground.”

  “Yes, but perhaps –”

  “Yes?” Now she turned to him.

  “Necessary.”

  She shook her head at that.

  “I have taken this road before,” she said, “and it is never necessary. It is wildness and foolishness, and nothing good can come of it.”

  This was true enough, and he ought to have been sobered and checked. Yet he could not feel it. He was only aware of those things in her words that suggested that her feelings were, like his, alive with possibility. He said nothing, but took a couple of steps towards her, and she did not move away.

  “This is not the same,” he said. “I am not like him. This is not some idle amusement.”

  “It was not for him,” she said. “He was in deadly earnest. He had every clever argument to hand to defeat my sense of self-protection, and he did. But I cannot do that again, Felix, no matter how gratifyingly wonderful the moment of surrender might be, how extraordinary that brief taste of happiness might be, because –”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, wanting desperately to come close beside her. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to.

  She continued: “I cannot bear what comes after. What must come after. For all those years after, I was frozen. I did not love my child as I should. It made such a failure of me. And only in these last few months have I started to feel anything again, to breathe, to think as I should...” She pressed her hands to her face and said, “No! No matter how much you may want it, and no matter how much I might want it!” She turned and walked down the room, away from him. “Let us keep this entirely as we ought. You are my son-in-law and it is your duty to make my daughter happy, as it is mine! We will do as we ought, do you understand? It is better for everyone that we should – yes?”

  She spoke with some force, but the effort of it made her voice break. She was close to tears, as was Felix. He found himself nodding.

  “Let me hear you say it,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Good. And in the New Year I will go to the Continent.”

  “No!” That was too much for him. He came towards her and stretched out his hand to her, laying his hand on her arm. “Please do not go. I will not trouble you –” But even as he spoke he knew it was a promise he could not keep, that it was a promise better not made. He pulled back his hand and went to the window, feeling he now needed the cold air to bring him to his senses. He felt that he might climb out and go wander about in the snow, just as poor Eleanor had the other night looking for her wretched fox, that was in truth her broken heart. He felt all the pain of his responsibility then, his utter foolishness in looking elsewhere, in indulging his feelings, like a drunkard unable to see anything beyond the easy pleasure of the next bottle. Not only had he broken her heart, but he had caused great pain to the extraordinary woman who lit up the dark room behind him.

  “No, I will go,” she said, and there was a finality in her tone that he did not dare dispute.

  She left the room, and he continued to stand by the window, knowing he should be profoundly grateful for her good grace and common sense, but feeling nothing but a dull rage at the world that was so constructed to make such a renunciation desirable.

  He did not know how or when he composed himself enough to return to the drawing room. It was a struggle, certainly, and for once, he was glad that all eyes were on Truro. Felix stood at the back, and found himself another glass of champagne. Truro, he observed, had drunk most of his claret jug of punch and looked extremely flushed. He was clearly well in his cups, though it did not seem to affect his reading. He was giving them a long and frankly tedious description of some peasant abode, the dwelling of an old woman known for her second sight.

  “And then the old crone, leaning forward and stirring her great pot, said to Rosamunda, ‘Thou shouldst take care, my child, great care. Do not trust those who call themselves your friends. Trust nobody – nobody, I tell you!’”

  Then Truro began to laugh. “Please excuse me...” he managed to say, and then stood for some moments, laughing so hard that he had to gasp for breath.

  Hepworth stepped forward and said, “Steady now, old fellow.”

  “No, no, I will be...”

  But he still could not control his laughter. Hepworth guided him to a chair in which he sat down, still hysterical with amusement, gasping for breath. Tolley had gone to join him and was loosening his neck-tie, while Mi
ss Fleming, who had grabbed his hand and crouched down beside him, was trying to soothe him.

  Felix found himself watching all this as if at the play.

  Then Tolley called out, “Mr Carswell!” and he remembered himself, and went to see if he could help. He made a cursory examination, as much as Truro’s hysteria permitted.

  “What do you think the trouble is?” said Tolley.

  “He is slightly feverish, and I think he has over-indulged. Perhaps something from supper is disagreeing with him,” said Felix. “I think you’d better take him home and put him to bed, Hepworth, and give him plenty of water and keep him cool. I will look in first thing tomorrow. And keep him away from Mrs Truro and the baby!”

  “Certainly!” said Hepworth.

  “Should you not go with them, Felix?” said Eleanor.

  “No, ma’am, that won’t be necessary, I think I can manage him,” said Hepworth. “I’ve seen him this far gone before, I must confess. He is liable to over-excitement.”

  “It is a symptom of his genius,” said Miss Fleming.

  “And it will be over in the morning,” Hepworth said.

  “I will look in, then,” Felix said.

  “We should at least order a carriage,” Eleanor said.

  “No, really, ma’am,” said Hepworth. “The fresh air won’t do him any harm, I think – will it, Doctor?”

  “And it is no distance, really.”

  “No, no distance!” ventured Truro, and then collapsed into another manic fit of laughter. “And so good night, good night, good night, sweet lady!”

  He attempted to grab both Eleanor’s hands and was kissing them liberally.

  “Really, I think – oh, please excuse him, Mrs Carswell!” said Mr Hepworth. He then took charge of Truro with an expertise that seemed born of a great deal of roistering, and they left, along with Miss Fleming. The other guests all began to look about for their own wraps and transport.

  “I think we had better go as well, Maria,” said Mrs Fforde, as Canon Fforde roused Tom from his slumber in a sofa in the corner.

  “I’ll go and see about your carriage,” said Felix.

  “Thank you,” said Mrs Fforde. “Miss Lacey, Miss Martha, let us take you with us. My husband and son, Sir Mark and Mr Tolley can walk that little way, with no difficulty. You will come back with us, won’t you, Mr Tolley?”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I can walk the whole way. It is no trouble. You will be squashed.”

  “It’s a bleak night,” Mrs Fforde said. “Come back with us.”

  Soon everyone had left, leaving Felix, Eleanor and Lady Blanchfort in the hall, which was now deathly cold from the constant opening and closing of the doors.

  “Oh, how utterly wretched!” Eleanor said. “And now I have the most horrible headache!”

  “So have I,” said Felix. “That punch, what the devil was in it? I think you should burn the recipe!”

  “Go to bed, both of you,” Lady Blanchfort said. “I shall see all is settled down here.”

  She made a gesture to chivvy them upstairs, like a hen-wife, and then went to see to the housekeeping. Felix, with a fast-drooping Eleanor on his arm, glanced back, but she had gone. She was determined that they should put her strictures into action.

  In their bedroom, Eleanor, rueful and tearful, was plucking at her bodice, her face screwed up at the light. She allowed him to help her undress, indeed seeming glad of his attentions, and by the time she was in her chemise, she was clinging to him, weeping.

  “I hope he will be all right,” she said. “He will be, won’t he?”

  “I am sure. You heard what Hepworth said.”

  “Yes, yes, you are right,” she said, and then, disentangling herself, she controlled her tears and walked across the room to the fireside where – without a hint of modesty – she cast aside her chemise so that she stood quite naked in front of him. “It is just as well, you know,” she went on, reaching for her nightgown, which was warming on a rack nearby.

  “What?” Felix said, somewhat distracted by this.

  “That he was taken ill. It will make everyone forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  She was still holding her nightgown, as if it were the drapery in a classical statue.

  “How bad that book is. It was bad, don’t you think?”

  “It was not –” Felix began. “I was not really listening.”

  “I suppose it was only a first draft,” she went on, “but I did not care for it. The heroine was very dull.” She gave a sigh, put on her nightgown and went over to the bed. “A disappointment.”

  “I’m going to get ready for bed,” Felix said, going to the door.

  “Will you come back?” she said, putting out her hand. “Please? I’d rather not be alone tonight.”

  When he returned from his dressing room, she was curled up in bed but not yet asleep.

  “How is your head?” he asked.

  “Awful,” she said. “Perhaps I did mis-copy that recipe. Or Littleboy misread my hand. My writing is hard to read sometimes, I know.”

  He got in beside her and took her into his arms, and she did not resist. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly he felt flooded with shame for ever having thought that he might find happiness elsewhere. That a simple, mutual affection still existed between them could not be denied, especially in the warm tangle of limbs and soft kisses that followed. He fell asleep, feeling profoundly grateful that he had been saved from himself.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Giles woke early on Saturday morning, feeling somewhat sore but thoroughly bored of being in bed, despite his delightful companion in adversity. He felt he must get up, at least for a while. Emma was blissfully lost in sleep, her long plait of hair lying over her shoulder like a cat’s tail. He kissed her good morning, but was careful not to disturb her.

  Holt was up and about his duties with his usual efficiency. He made up the fire in the small drawing room for Giles and brought him his breakfast there including beef tea with an egg swimming in it instead of his customary coffee.

  “To knit the bones, sir,” Holt said, noting Giles involuntary expression of revulsion. “Mr Carswell’s orders.”

  “He did not say I was not to have coffee, though, I hope?” said Giles.

  “No, I shall get that for you presently, sir. But drink that first, sir, or the missus will be offended. She took a great deal of trouble over it.”

  “Then certainly I will,” said Giles, taking up the cup. “And please thank Mrs Holt. We are giving her rather more work than usual, what with the children. If she needs more hands, you must tell me.”

  “You will be sure I will, sir. The thing is,” he said, taking up his silver tray and drumming his fingers on it. “There is a little difficulty there that I ought to tell you, but after what happened to the mistress, I don’t like to.”

  “I think you’d better,” said Giles.

  “Mrs Holt is expecting. Three months gone.” Holt grinned with happiness, and then remembered himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “No, it’s nothing to be sorry about, Holt. Congratulations! Is Mrs Holt quite well?”

  “Oh yes, sir. She’s strong as anything, though she was crying for the mistress, and I’ve never seen her cry like that over anything. But she is quite fit for her work – at least for now. So it will be no trouble for you and Mrs Vernon, sir, she will take care it is not. Ah, that’s the bell, sir. I had better go and see who that is.”

  Giles realised that this information would try Emma’s bravery. He felt something of the pain of it himself, but he could only hope that matters ran well for them all. Holt richly deserved all the comforts of a family. However, it might mean some changes in their own domestic arrangements; there was a possibility that Holt and his wife might wish to strike out on their own, perhaps set themselves up in some small business. Children were not easily incorporated into a life of service, after all.

  As he turned this over in his mind a
nd drank his beef tea, he heard the children and Greene coming downstairs for their breakfast, and then he wondered if he was fit enough to get dressed and go into work. Giles attempted to get up and found it winded him – he sat down again, feeling frustrated. At this moment, Holt came in with their caller. It was Sergeant Hammond.

  “Excellent!” Giles said. “We will have that coffee now, Holt, if you please. And have you had breakfast, Hammond?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” said Hammond.

  “Then sit down. I’m glad to see you. I was on the verge of sending for you.”

  “I thought you might do that, sir, so I thought I would come by,” said Hammond, taking a chair. “Handsome set of children you have there, sir.”

  “You met my niece and nephews, then?” said Giles.

  “Yes, and that’s a smart-looking young lass looking after them, as well, sir,” said Hammond, with an appreciative grin.

  “No, Hammond, I cannot let you steal Greene away from me,” said Giles. “She is too necessary to our sanity. Northminster is full of pretty young women to kiss under the mistletoe. You may kiss them all, but not Greene!”

  “As you wish, sir,” said Hammond.

  “Now, I have an errand or two for you. It occurs to me that we neglected to look in an obvious place for that missing cash of Roper’s.”

  “Ah yes, I see what you mean, sir,” said Hammond, with a smile. “That did cross my mind, sir.”

  “You will make an excellent Inspector, Hammond, soon enough,” said Giles. “So go and see if we are right, will you? But first, I must write out some other orders for you to take to Chief Inspector Rollins, if you will be good enough to fetch me the inkstand from there, and some paper. I will only take five minutes or so. If you like, you can go downstairs and ask Miss Greene when her half-day is. I am sure you would prefer that to drinking coffee in silence.”

  “With pleasure, sir,” Hammond said, and left the room.

  ~

  An hour later Rollins and two other men were admitted to the small drawing room by Holt. One was a clerk from the Northern Office and the other William Armstrong, still cuffed and looking distinctly hostile.