The Glass Town Game

by Catherynne M. Valente

  “Do you think little Victoria gets taken to balls in Gondal?” Zenobia said softly. “Do you think they ever let her out at all?”

  Miss Austen saw she would get no help. “A Lady may not do the asking and remain a Lady! It’s not to be borne! You poor naive lamb! From the moment I saw you, I knew you were the gentlest and fragilest and most unfortunate of souls. Your very footsteps whispered to me: Take me under your wing! I cannot fly without your help.”

  Charlotte snorted. But Jane would not let up.

  “No, no. I simply will not let you embarrass yourself, my poor darling sparrow! Let me—or indeed, Lady Elrington—put out our little butterfly feelers and test the lilies for your sake! He may come to you, when we have done our subtle work. Then there’s nothing improper!”

  “I can’t wait for that,” Charlotte answered curtly. She felt wonderfully free as she made a golden arrow across the Wildfell Ball. She could not be bothered with teacup-women. She was already arranging her words to the Duke in her head. Behind her, Lady Zenobia smiled satisfactorily to herself. Jane looked as though she might sob or break her fan in half or perhaps simply explode like a stick of old dynamite at any moment. Charlotte did not look back.

  The Iron Duke was smoking with several of his limeskin guard in a little circle of violet sofas near a vast liquor cabinet that soared up into the evening like the front face of a bank vault. A limey naval Captain with a lean, unripe face cried out:

  “And I said to him, I said: That’s how a good Glass Town bulldog buries his Boney!”

  The men roared with citrusy laughter. The smoke was so thick Charlotte could only see a vague glow where the Duke sat, his molten wings banked and glowing peacefully, his white-hot eyes full of merriment.

  “Sir,” she said, curtsying as best she knew how, from books and one night when Aunt Elizabeth had been at the sherry and they all pretended to meet the Queen, who was a hat rack. “I wondered if, perhaps, you might consider granting an unworthy young Lady the honor of a dance. I have only just arrived from the country with my sister, you see, and I have heard tales of your adventures—”

  The limeskin Captain cut her off. “The Duke does not dance, Miss Hayseed of Fieldmouse Manor. Run along back to knitting cow dung or spinning beer or whatever it is you stranded gentry do out there in County Nothing.”

  The men laughed uproariously again, slapping their green knees and dragging on round lemon-leaf cigars. This navy man was clearly the jester to the little court of smirking wallflowers.

  “Well,” Charlotte continued, deepening her curtsy till her calves ached. “The dance itself is rather beside the point, I’m told.”

  The Duke of Wellington spoke for the first time.

  “Is it?”

  “We only hear rumors of such grand things in Fieldmouse Manor, sir. But I imagine the dance is only a bit of an excuse. Something to do with your hands while you’re talking.”

  “And are you a very good dancer?” The Duke blew a ring of lemon-smoke.

  “Oh, certainly not, sir,” Charlotte said with a twinkle in her eye. She was beginning to enjoy this. She’d only ever bantered with Branwell or made her toy soldiers do it before. It was much better with a new person. “We don’t dance in County Nothing; we just fall over and call it a waltz.”

  A few of the lads toasted her and cackled appreciatively. “That’s quite enough wit out of your wattle, Lady No One—” began the navy-man, furious to have competition.

  The Duke raised his rusted hand. “Do shut up, Admiral Leaf,” he said. “If falling flat on one’s face constitutes a waltz these days, perhaps I shall finally be able to manage one!”

  Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, Hero of Trafalgar, stepped out of the curtain of smoke and took up Charlotte’s hand in his. His iron skin was terribly warm, almost too hot to touch, but she would not wince, she would not, even if she blistered. His face was just as it had been in every picture Charlotte had ever seen, except that this Arthur Wellesley was so much younger, his jaw so much softer, and he stood only a head taller than her. Could he even be fourteen? She thought not. Yet who would put a fourteen-year-old boy, even if he was Arthur, at the head of an army? Of course, no one else seemed to be old enough to go to a ball without their parents hanging over them like moths, yet here they all were.

  The dance was one of those that was much more like soldiers marching than dancing. You turned this way and that with precision when the horn called for it, in squares and circles and spirals that no one could see unless they floated above everything like a sparrow—or like Josephine, hanging in silent fury in her cage. Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief. Aunt Elizabeth had taught them what she knew of this sort of thing, which wasn’t much. More importantly, as long as your partner wasn’t any better than you were at it, you could pretend very well, and the Duke of Wellington was dreadful. He’d no sense of rhythm and always started a bit too early, and besides, he looked directly at Charlotte, his eyes burning into hers, when you were meant to only glance flirtatiously every once in a while. He looked, to anyone watching, like a metal monster from the depths of the sea stalking after prey.

  Meanwhile, Emily and Lord Byron sailed through the grand hall like a pair of songbirds chasing one another. Byron could dance so well that it sort of rubbed off on you, left handprints on your heart to lead you to the next promenade or step or wheel. All eyes that were not on the Duke and his mysterious, nameless golden girl were fastened fast upon the poet and his silver siren. The music rose up to the midnight stars like steam. Charlotte and Emily passed each other in the broad circles of dancers, catching snippets of each other’s conversations as the silk and ribbon and lace and velvet blurred by.

  The Duke touched Charlotte’s hand. She was grateful for the long, dark gloves Ginevra had given her. No gold paint would rub off on the Duke’s fingers and give them away. The couple turned round together.

  “Very well, Miss . . .”

  “Bell. Currer Bell of Thushcross Grange.”

  Arthur Wellesley narrowed his iron eyes. “One of Felix’s granddaughters? I don’t recall meeting you at the Ridsummer bonfire last year. It was a fine harvest and a fine feast, but I would still remember someone as clever as you. Cleverness is beauty, and beauty cleverness, and that is the top and bottom of the truth.” Did the Duke of Wellington just call me beautiful? thought Charlotte. “I remember apple cider and seedcake and Felix telling his wretched jokes to the cider jug and expecting to get a laugh, but no one with such sensible eyes, such brilliant hair, such rational lips.”

  “I was ill at Ridsummer, sir.” Charlotte forced herself to blush. She had never learned the trick of doing it naturally, but people expected it so! She’d never understood why a girl’s cheeks should turn pink just because someone said one word or another to her. Men never did it. So whenever it seemed some adult was getting upset at her not blushing, Charlotte held her breath lightly until her face turned a pretty red. She did it now, under all her gold paint. “My sister and I had matched fevers. But Grandpapa does make wretched jokes.” Please stop asking questions! she thought helplessly. I’m nearly out of lies!

  “Do you like the house, Miss Bell?” Lord Byron whispered into Emily’s ear. “It’s all so wonderfully faded and ruined. I do so love faded things, don’t you? Anything new is boring. It hasn’t lived. It hasn’t got secrets. Do you have any secrets? Come, tell me one at once.”

  Emily blushed. She did it so easily and for so little reason that she’d taught herself not to even when her cheeks ached to turn. Only when I say! she told her disobedient face. But now she let the blush come, rising under the silver paint, and twinkled her eyes at him to top it off. She’d seen village girls twinkle their eyes at boys back home and had always wanted to try it, only once when she did try, Branwell screamed and told Papa that Em was having an attack of palsy. “Well, I have got one, Lord Byron, but I really mustn’t tell. We’re practically strangers!”

  Lord Byron swung his leg round so gracefully it took Emily�
��s breath away. “Please, Ellis, my darling, you must call me George. And don’t you tell anyone we’re strangers! I should die of humiliation! You’ve read my work, after all.”

  Emily’s blush crept down her neck and into her soul. “I have, my Lord.” Under his wolfy eyes, she forgot all about Lord Bell of Thrushcross and Ginevra’s lessons and even, for just a moment, that she was not even a little bit made of silver.

  “You see? We are already the very best of friends!” laughed Lord Byron, and swung her past her sister once more, so close that the hems of their gowns touched.

  “Very well, then, Miss Bell,” said the Iron Duke. “What talk would you excuse with dancing?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Charlotte gasped. The dance quickened. She began to worry that she might sweat through the gold paint and ruin it all.

  “You said that dancing was only something to do with your hands while you’re talking. Now, I am a very clever lad myself, so from that I deduced from all that back and forth that you wanted to talk to me.” Charlotte could not be sure, but she thought his eyes were twinkling at her. It’s very hard to tell when the eyes in question are carved out of iron slugs.

  Now was the moment. Plead her case, get what she came for, press on, press on; Branwell and Anne needed her. But somewhere deep inside where she could not quite admit it, Charlotte wished that she could stay forever in this fairy hall, in the arms of the Duke of Wellington, in the center of a beautiful bubble where nothing hurt. But she could not stay. Such bubbles were for other girls, girls who really were made of gold and gallantry.

  “It’s my brother, sir,” she whispered. “My brother and my sister. My other sister, I mean to say.”

  “More of Felix’s brood? Good heavens, there are rather a lot of you. Like a badger’s burrow up there in the counties. And what is this sister’s name? Is she as clever as you?”

  “Ah . . .” Charlotte wracked her brain. Something strong and heavy and fashionable about a thousand years ago, that’s what Ginevra had said. “Acton,” she finished out of nowhere in particular, hoping she had chosen something not too wrong. “And my brother is . . . Blackwood.” Charlotte bit her lip. She tasted paint. She lowered her voice to a whisper and widened her eyes. She tried to make herself look as innocent and needful as she could. Wellington was a man of society. She had to be the kind of Lady a gentleman would want to help. She could not be a rough parson’s daughter from Haworth. She had to be the kind of girl who would dance through the beautiful rooms of Miss Jane’s books, so beautiful and good that everything worked out for them in the end. So Charlotte tried to make her face look like the desperate maidens of romantic novels. She tried to make her face say: I am helpless. Only you can save me. It felt like more of a mask than Ginny’s makeup. “Gondal has attacked us, sir. Well, of course, Gondal has attacked all of Glass Town, of course. But us in particular.”

  The Duke froze. A tall, dark man tried to take the next step in the dance and collided into Wellesley’s iron back. When he turned round to scold whoever had held up the line, Charlotte saw that it was Adrian, the Marquis of Douro. Embers glowed strangely beneath his ashen skin. His eyes seemed to be trying to pry her apart. Wellington cleared his throat and spun Charlotte a little too quickly into a line of other girls. At least he only crushed her smallest toe doing it. Emily twirled in on her left, and they clasped hands quickly before the dance urged them on again. This is it. Do your best.

  “Your brother and sister?” Lord Byron mused. His long black doggy hair glittered in the moonlight. “There’s more of you? And are they just as charming as the rest of their family?”

  “Not very.” Emily laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry! Anne’s only little but she’s the sweetest bird in the forest. It’s only Branwell who couldn’t charm a rock into sitting still and doing nothing.” She immediately cursed herself for forgetting that everyone was meant to have false names.

  “What a perfectly marvelous line. I shall have it for my own! It’s the right of a Lord, you know, to take a percentage of anything good produced on his land. And I’m actually a Baron, so I can take the lot.” Lord Byron laughed, and when he laughed, it sounded to Emily like a song written only for her. Though he was laughing at his own joke, she supposed.

  “Is this your land? Your house?” Emily suddenly noticed that many of the other ladies were staring at them and whispering. What did those knowing glances mean? Of course, she knew very well that Lord Byron was meant to be mad and bad and all that rubbish, but this Lord Byron was only her own age. How dangerous to know could he be just yet?

  Byron kissed her gloved hand as they stepped lightly round one another. He could dance like rivers could run. No one had ever kissed her hand before. Emily felt like she was going to throw up and like she was flying all at once.

  “It is indeed, my clever dove! My house, my land, my drink, my food. I’ve loaned it all out to Douro for his little party,” Byron said, slipping his arm around her waist. They were almost of a height. “You know how it is with elderly money. It can still cut a fine figure at table, but it’s not quite all there.” He tapped the side of his silky head. “I myself am merely old money. Entirely different. But! It is not Douro’s brother and sister in peril, nor mine. Did you say a fellow called Brunty took them? Took them how? Took them where? Anyone named Brunty is trouble, it’s true. Did he have a surname? Any distinguishing marks? Tattoos? And where did they go? Perhaps they’re having a grand adventure and you oughtn’t interrupt it.”

  Emily looked stricken. Lord Byron’s shoulders slumped.

  “Don’t give me that face, darling Ellis! I only want joyful or cunning or passionate faces, none of this pale grief and sour disappointment! That sort of thing is for poetry, not for living. What can I do to get my merry Ellis back to charm the rocks her brother cannot?”

  Emily smiled softly, a smile that any Lord would hear as clearly as words. Perhaps there is something.

  I’m really rather good at this, Emily thought. What a pity I’m not really the Lady of Thrushcross Grange!

  The song ended abruptly with all the dancers in two neat lines, boys on one side, girls on the other. Everyone applauded madly and laughed like tropical birds crying out for mates in the jungle. Beads of golden sweat stood out on Charlotte’s brow. Arthur looked sorrowfully at her.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Bell. The war is ever so much bigger than one brother or one sister. What help can be spared for such a little thing? I need every man by my side.” He looked round to see if anyone was eavesdropping. “We mean to make our final stand against Napoleon at Calabar. I cannot hold the capital with even one soldier missing. My answer is no, my dear, though it breaks my heart to say it to such a clever face as yours.”

  Charlotte’s carefully crafted helplessness fell away. Now, the helplessness turned horribly real. She fought back tears. She had just assumed he would say yes. He always said yes when she played Wellington in their games at home. This was her world. Hers and Emily’s and Branwell’s and Anne’s. How could he have said anything other than yes? What now? This had been her plan. Her only plan. And it was finished before it could begin. She was left with nothing but a dress and her loss and a coat of paint that was beginning to flake.

  Wellington winced. “No man could call me a coward on the battlefield,” he said reluctantly. “But I’ve always crumbled before a girl who’s disappointed in me. Don’t make such faces, Miss Currer. It is politics. It is war. There is no time for the fates of two little children while the world is falling apart.”

  Charlotte tried to wrench her arm from Wellington’s. He would not let her go. His grip was iron—really, actually iron. Fear sizzled all up and down her spine. Charlotte’s eyes glowed as white-hot as Wellington’s. “They are not two little children. They are my family. And you are a paperweight! Let me go!”

  “Currer, be still. You are making a scene! Don’t struggle so, like a wild, frantic bird rending its own feathers in desperation.”

  Charlotte drew herself up as tall a
s she could. Everyone kept calling her that. Some little, fluttering, weak thing. But she wasn’t! She would never be! Not for Wellington and not for Jane and not for anyone.

  “I am no bird,” she said coldly. She was no girl in a novel now. “And no net ensnares me.”

  The Duke recoiled and let her arm drop. He coughed uncomfortably, bowed deeply, and retreated unhappily into the green wall of his officers.

  Leftenant Gravey settled his wooden hand kindly on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Don’t let them do that to you, you nor your sister.” How had she never noticed that Gravey had such a lovely Northern accent, so like Tabitha’s?

  “Let who do what, Leftenant?”

  “Men. Dazzle you. They do it for advantage, no different from a field marshal gaining the high ground. You do the dazzling. You climb the hill. Or else you’ll be stuck down in the muddy marsh with the rest of us, and that’s no place to be.”

  “But I don’t know how to dazzle. I couldn’t dazzle a house fern.”

  Gravey kissed her forehead. He smelled like a warm autumn bonfire sparkling away.

  “Learn fast,” he said.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” came the high, bright, singsong voice belonging to the herald made of brandy snifters who had announced Charlotte and Emily to the Wildfell Ball. “If you would kindly gather in the Vivisectionists’ Garden for the evening’s entertainment, Young Soult the Rhymer will regale us with a marvelous display of theatrical puppetry in honor of our host, the Marquis of Douro!”

  “Oh, Miss Ellis,” Lord Byron gushed. He daringly put one sleek panther-fur hand on Emily’s gloved fingers. “Shall we go a-roving, deep into the night? We shall! You shall. And you must sit beside me the whole while. Young Soult is an epically awful poet, but he’s brilliant with puppets, you’ll see. You cannot miss it.” The great poet’s eyes danced with mischief and delight and not a little bit of malice. “It’s going to bring the house down.”