After a moment’s thought, Rue added, “Very good. Carry on.”
As one, the little crew dispersed and went back about their business, steps lighter for having met the Young Lady Captain.
Rue turned to the senior greaser, knowing the importance of getting this woman to trust her. The greaser was a strapping female in her early thirties, her frame long and lean and well-muscled. She had reddish-brown hair cut short and a voice almost low enough for a man. Rue trusted Dama to have found her the very best, but this woman also looked unkempt, gruff, and gloomy. Not to her vampire father’s ordinary taste at all.
“How do you do?” Rue said, sticking out her hand in the American fashion.
“Miss,” answered the woman, not shaking it.
Rue was tolerably certain the greaser should have said captain. Still, it was better to be nice, even in the face of insubordination. She retracted her hand. “Might I know your name, senior greaser?”
“Phinkerlington, miss. Aggie Phinkerlington.” She spat it out as if it should mean something significant.
“Very pleased to meet you, Greaser Phinkerlington.” Rue moved her assessment from gloomy to outright sullen and bad-tempered.
“Miss?”
“I trust you will keep her up until I can fix the officers in place?”
“Am I not doin’ so already, miss?”
“Of course you are. Thank you for you proficiency.” Rue was a little taken aback by the bluntness; it bordered on incivility.
The woman jerked her head. Was that a nod?
With an internal sigh, Rue said, “Dismissed.”
Aggie Phinkerlington sauntered off, leaving Rue perturbed. Not that she hadn’t met a number of people who hated her on sight. Her metanatural state had made her the target of prejudiced antipathy on more than one occasion. Still, it was outside of enough to be disliked for no apparent reason whatsoever. She’d simply have to win Miss Phinkerlington over. She wondered if pretending to be more like Primrose would help.
Winkle, all forgotten standing next to her, said, “She might be a bit of a problem, that one.”
“We shall see,” replied Rue. “I’m beginning to suspect problems are about to become my business. Now, where shall we––?”
She was cut off as one of the teakettle boilers nearby shrieked loudly and then exploded in a great flash of heat and steam.
Rue reacted on instinct, flattening herself to the floor of the soot-covered chamber. Winkle was right there with her. He had excellent reflexes for a fop.
“What the devil?” Rue turned her head, trying to see through the smoke. All she could make out was Winkle’s dark eyes, wide in shock. His top hat tumbled off and rolled towards a pile of kindling.
There were shouts and Greaser Phinkerlington began yelling. The smoke and steam cleared slowly to reveal sooties running everywhere.
The floor of the chamber began to lean as the ship lurched to one side.
“Keep her steady, keep her up!” hollered Phinkerlington. “Puff, Spoo, Kip – man the redundancy boiler, get her stabilised fast. Wute, Ribbin, Jikes – find out what’s wrong with boiler primary. Firemen? Where are my firemen?”
The chaos resolved itself into a controlled scurry under Phinkerlington’s orders.
Rue stood, dusting herself off – glad she’d chosen to wear grey. She offered a hand to Winkle who looked a bit shaken by the experience. He stood and retrieved his hat, examining both it and the state of his knees with a distressed expression.
To take his mind of the problem of attire, Rue commented, “She’s very good at her job.”
“Unfortunately, she isn’t as good at personality,” replied the drone.
“Dama has his priorities. Personality can be improved upon – efficiency is a natural talent.”
Winkle chuckled. “Very wise indeed.”
As they watched, the activity became a well-coordinated hum, the floor levelled out and soon everything was more or less back to normal.
Aggie Phinkerlington gave Rue a look that suggested she would never forgive the young captain for having witnessed this shameful debacle.
Rue grinned hopefully at her.
The senior greaser spat out of the corner of her mouth and went back to work.
“Charming,” said Rue.
“Don’t you worry about Aggie, captain,” said a small voice. One of the young sooties, barely twelve if she was a day, stood next to her, cap in hand. “She’s a crotchety old thing, but she’s fair.”
Rue smiled softly down. “Thank you…?”
“Spoo, captain. She shortens all our names, better to shout quickly-like.”
“Thank you, Miss Spoo.”
“Just Spoo’ll do.”
“Spoo,” came the yell from Greaser Phinkerlington. “Stop your dawdling!”
Spoo popped her cap back on and scampered off.
Rue left the ship reluctantly, already planning which gadgets, tea, weapons, china, and shoes she would be packing for India. She’d have to see if Uncle Rabiffano could take the air sickness long enough to give her tips on decoration and furnishings. She emerged to find Dama sitting on the footboard of his coach, chatting amicably with his drones. He looked up as Rue came trotting over, wafting Winkle in her wake.
“Dama, she’s glorious.”
“Delighted you approve, Puggle. But what happened to your face and your lovely achromatic dress?”
“Problem with one of the boilers.”
“We thought we heard a shriek and a bang.”
“And you trusted me to sort it and didn’t send a drone to investigate? Dama, how lovely of you.”
“My dearest Puggle, my whole life with you has been a series of explosive events. Why should this be any different?”
“I shall take that as a compliment,” said Rue happily. “This one was not my fault – I feel compelled to defend my honour. And anyway, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed, said the horrible Phinkerlington creature.”
“Ah, you met Aggie, did you, Puggle my pet? Not to worry, she grows on you.”
“Like mould?”
“And like mould she can be very useful.”
“And tasty on cheese?” Rue was thinking of teatime.
“I wouldn’t go that far, my little petunia blossom.” Dama hopped lightly down and came to stand next to Rue, looking back over to the ship. “She still needs a few light touches by way of adornment.”
Rue was proprietorially offended on the ship’s behalf. “She’s perfect.”
“Now, my little Puggle-muffin, no insult intended. I merely wished to point out that her balloon needs to be oiled and painted. You’ll have to select the colour pallet. Make me proud, please, darling dewdrop? Also you need to name her.”
Rue was nothing if not decisive. “Can I have it painted red with black spots, like a great big ladybird?”
Dama let out an uncharacteristic bark of uncontrolled laughter. “I should have guessed. And the name?”
Rue considered and then, after taking into account the pale golden nature of the amazing Chinese wood and the generally warm spirit of the craft said, “The Spotted Custard.”
Dama suppressed a slight snort. “Are you certain, my brilliant child?”
Rue’s chin went up. “She’ll be spotted and custard is my favourite food.”
Dama didn’t question her further. “One of the drones will see her registered.” He reached into his emerald-green waistcoat pocket and pulled out a list. “Now, you require additional crew. I’ve already selected deckhands and three stewards, but you’ll need more domestic staff and, of course, officers. Here’s my list of recommendations.” He handed the bit of paper to her, almost nervously.
Rue would never have thought Dama capable of apprehension. Then she looked down the list. It was not very long and one name instantly jumped out at her. “Oh, bosh! Percy? Must I?”
“Now, Puggle, he’s the best man for the job of navigator in all of London. Who’s not already committed to queen, country, o
r contract. Do be reasonable. He’s smart and capable and used to being bossed around by a woman.”
“But he’s a pollock. And he whines. And he’s easily distracted.”
“He knows all about the history of every country in the British Empire. He can find out about almost anything else.”
Rue capitulated with a grumbled, “Prim won’t like it.”
“He speaks six languages,” weaselled her adopted father.
“And ignores instructions in all of them!”
Dama pursed his lips and then faced the lion’s wrath. “You haven’t finished the list.”
Rue perused further. Then she encountered the name Dama was really nervous about. “Absolutely not.”
“Now, now, Puggle, darling––”
“Dama! No.”
“Just think about it, my dear. He is absolutely perfect for chief engineer.”
“She’ll never let him go.”
“Which she?”
“Either she.”
“I think you’ll find he’s got a mind of his own these days.”
“Oh, you think so, do you? That’s a manifold problem. I don’t like men who won’t listen to my mind over theirs.”
“He designed most of the boilers and steam engine controls on The Spotted Custard.”
Rue shook the piece of paper at Dama in violent exasperation. “Of course he did. I should have known from the kettles.”
“And he might have mentioned recently to Winkle how eager he is to leave London for a while.”
“Got some poor young tradesman’s daughter pregnant, did he?”
Dama was truly appalled at such crassness. “Prudence Alessandra Maccon Akeldama that is enough.”
Rue admitted she might have gone a little far. “I suppose you did just give me charge of the best ship ever made. I could think about it.”
“Perhaps even meet him?”
Rue sighed. “I do love you, Dama, but sometimes you can be the most vexing of all my parents.”
Dama accepted victory and shifted to look fondly over at his cadre of drones. “Come along, darlings, we must take the Puggle to the train station. She must visit Woolsey Hive.”
The drones were re-enacting the balcony seen from Romeo and Juliet over the edge of the middle squeak deck of the ship. Winkle was back on board, draped in a tablecloth for hair and gesticulating dramatically at his doomed lover below.
Rue could not resist one last complaint. “He’s so very difficult.”
“The best ones are, my darling.” Dama’s eyes were misty with memory.
Woolsey Castle was situated some two hours outside London in particularly lush countryside. The rolling unspoiled beauty of it gave most vampires the screaming willies, for vampires vastly preferred city life. The Woolsey Hive had settled in a swarm of desperation, and was as ill-suited to the green as a family of goats would be to sitting in the House of Lords. Since their move, the Express Whistler, intended to steam straight through to Barking, would stop at an unmarked and unnamed station by special request. No one but the conductor knew the location and everyone was afraid to ask. From that station – the Countess’s Crouch as some called it – there was a tiny automated tram that puffed up the long low hill to Woolsey proper. The tram only ran if the vampires approved the visitor, and there were still check-points to clear, manned by large, muscled drones with more cravat than cranial capacity.
The most aggravating aspect of the Woolsey Hive was not its location, rustic though it might be to a young lady of Rue’s urban sensibilities. Nor was it Woolsey Castle’s appearance, that of a hodgepodge manor house with too many flying buttresses and too little symmetry. No, the most irritating thing about Woolsey Hive was its queen, Countess Nadasdy.
Countess Nadasdy was always extremely nice to Rue. Most vampires were, outwardly. Woolsey Hive made a particular effort – an unpleasantly particular effort. Lady Prudence Akeldama was always invited to all hive events. Never had a single gold-embossed invitation passed Rue by since she first came into society at seventeen. The countess made it a point to leave her inner sanctum, the back parlour, and walk out to meet Rue in the hallway any time Rue visited, a courtesy she did not extend to muhjah or dewan. She never failed to compliment Rue on some part of her attire, seeming genuinely interested in what the young people were wearing these days. She intended Rue to be aware of her approval of Rue’s unflaggingly stylish choices. As if Rue would dare go calling less than perfectly turned out with Dama for a father and Rabiffano for an uncle.
None of this made up for the fact that the entire hive would quite happily see Rue fried like an apple fritter and take turns dipping her into the brandy sauce. Quite frankly, it was not comfortable paying a call on an aristocrat who wanted one dead, particularly not when that aristocrat is a very old vampire of means and social skill. It became, in a word, incommodious.
“My dear Cousin Prudence.” The countess advanced, both gloved hands out in the greeting vampires extended to family members. Vampires took the concept of adoption seriously. In the hive mind, Rue was solely and entirely Dama’s daughter. The Maccons had relinquished their lawful right to her, and as such their parental control. The fact that they remained next door was a source of aggravation but not contention. As long as Rue was legally the child of a vampire, she was one of theirs. And by George they would treat her as such.
The countess grasped Rue, carefully, by the upper arms. Her hands were well shielded from Rue’s skin by several layers of cloth. The vampire kissed the air a good six inches away from Rue’s cheek. “Welcome. To what do we owe the honour of you gracing us with your delightful presence?”
She was laying it on rather thick, but Rue was Dama’s daughter and, if nothing else, she could entertain and rebut flattery in all its forms.
“My dear Cousin Nadasdy, how stunning you look this evening. Is that a new gown? How very modern.”
Rue was not exaggerating. The outfit was lovely – a blood-red velvet reception gown with rose-printed cream silk sleeves, divided overskirt, and scalloped hem, all trimmed in the barest hint of Chantilly lace. The countess wore her honey-coloured hair piled in a profusion of curls atop her head with red roses nested throughout. She was a mite round for such an elegant gown but she carried it off by dint of regal bearing and the certain fear always bestowed upon those in her company that she was far more interested in nibbling one’s neck than anything else. Even fashion.
“Do come in, Cousin Prudence. You are always invited. But such an unexpected call. And without a chaperone. We did not receive your card. Did it go astray?”
“No, no, forgive my horrid bumbling. I must presume upon our familial relationship to call unannounced. I did not have time to send ’round as this is a matter most urgent. Since we are practically family, I thought this once I could leave off my customary escort.”
“Well, then, my dear cousin, do not stand on ceremony. Come right through, do.” The countess was sickeningly obliging, gesturing Rue magnanimously into the hall. The entranceway of Woolsey Castle was decorated in shades of wine and cream, beautifully complementing the countess’s dress, a fact that may or may not have been accidental. A stunning crystal chandelier in the shape of a dirigible dangled from the gilt ceiling and the very latest in mechanised hem cleaners rested near the door. Valuable works of art decorated the walls, set off by what could only be original Greek statuary. The Woolsey Hive took stately elegance seriously. There wasn’t a whole lot they could do about the exterior appearance of Woolsey Castle but they took great pains that the interior be beyond sumptuous. There were drones and vampires lurking nearby, any number of whom glared at Rue out of hard, unkind, glittering eyes.
“No insult intended, dear cousin,” replied Rue, anxious to get out of the cloying atmosphere of the hive quickly. “But it is actually your ward I wish to see.”
The countess was taken aback at such a request. “Quesnel? But I thought you two loathed each other.”
“Now, now, cousin, loathe is such a s
trong word. We have been known to clash on a few occasions.”
The countess raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Indeed? I believe you once stole poor Ambrose’s vampire abilities merely so you could dunk Quesnel into the duck pond.”
Rue blushed. Admittedly, Quesnel’s behaviour had been very bad indeed, but she had escalated matters more than she should. “That was a long time ago.”
The queen looked misty-eyed. “Was it? Ah, time passes so oddly for you mortals.”
“She was eight,” said a mild tenor voice, tinged with a slight French accent. “I was down from university. I remember it well.”
Rue whirled to face Quesnel.
The man advanced towards her.
Quesnel Lefoux was one of the few males Rue had ever met whom she could not manage. He was unlike the large gruff werewolves of her father’s pack, easily swayed by feminine wiles. Nor was he like the effete elegant courtiers of Akeldama’s domicile influenced by whispered gossip and cheeky innuendo. Quesnel Lefoux was a different breed entirely, which accounted for a great deal of Rue’s difficulty with the man. He would not be categorised. He was of medium build and medium height. He moved like a dancer but had the manners of an academic and an inflated opinion of his own repartee. He smiled easily and was inclined to wit rather than wisdom despite his being one of the most brilliant mechanics of the modern age. He was a terrible flirt, which everyone blamed on his being French. To cap the offence, Rue’s acting abilities always failed her around him. As a result, he was prone to either making her head spin with banter, or overwhelming her with the desire to dump tea on his head, sometimes both at the same time.
“Lady Prudence, to what do I owe this unalloyed pleasure?” Quesnel took her hand and bent to kiss her wrist, lips whisper-soft and actually daring to touch skin. He was entirely human and had nothing to fear from Rue in that regard. Except that she badly wanted to box his ears for the impertinence.
Prudence Page 5
