Manners & Mutiny

by Gail Carriger

  Petunia grinned—actually grinned!—and even blushed a little. “Well, no need to babble on. There’s more for you still to come.”

  “Indeed?”

  Agatha and Dimity trotted up at that juncture.

  Petunia turned to them. “Which one of you is Miss Woosmoss?”

  Agatha curtsied politely. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Hisselpenny.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, my husband and your father are business associates, and as I was coming down to collect Sophronia, he suggested I bring you and your little companion—Dimity, is it?—along. We shall make a merry party of it all the way to London.”

  Agatha and Dimity made delighted noises, and Petunia glowed at being thought the magnanimous benefactress. How is it I never knew that all she wanted was to be a gracious hostess? Sophronia was curious as to whether these were changes in her sister, or in her own perception of her sister. But Petunia did seem to genuinely enjoy herself—ordering about the coachman and ensuring the safety of the luggage as it was lifted up top.

  “Now, who prefers facing? Miss Woosmoss?” Petunia had obviously been instructed by her husband to be particularly nice to Agatha. However, none of Geraldine’s girls were so foolish as to antagonize without purpose. If Petunia wanted to make a fuss over Agatha, they were happy to let her.

  “Why, Mrs. Hisselpenny, what a lovely carriage. So well padded.” It was only adults and boys who threw Agatha off. Petunia, Agatha could manage.

  “Did you notice the foot warmers? My dear Mr. Hisselpenny is too good to me,” gushed Petunia.

  Dimity hopped in next. “Lovely.”

  “Thank you.” Petunia had not yet grown so accustomed to luxury that it failed to improve her goodwill, particularly when seated in the lap of it.

  It was an uneventful journey. Sophronia stuck to a policy of saying the third nice thing that came into her head, rather than the first snappish one. Agatha was pleasantly warmhearted, as only Agatha could be in the face of abject frivolity. And Dimity and Petunia filled up the space in between with chatter so unending as to make them fast friends by the end of an hour, and bosom companions in the most superficial way by the end of the first day’s drive.

  Petunia’s new magnanimous nature saw them set up in the best suite of rooms at the inn and dining in rustic splendor on mock turtle soup, roast sirloin of beef with horseradish, Brussels sprouts, cabinet pudding, and Stilton cheese with celery and pulled bread.

  Petunia seemed inclined to eat mainly her vegetables, turning quite green at the smell of the Stilton. This surprised Sophronia into asking if her husband belonged to a religious sect to which Petunia had converted. Why else give up cheese?

  “Dear me, no.” Petunia lowered her voice, even though they had a private dining room. “I am increasing.”

  That, of course, caused much squealing. For although unmarried ladies were not to know of such things, Geraldine’s girls had some training from Sister Mattie on the subject of preventative measures. After all, children were very incommodious when practicing espionage. This, Sophronia realized, opened up the perfect topic of conversation for the remainder of their journey to London. Because, of course, it had been decided that both Agatha and Dimity must, simply must, also come to town. Well, Agatha lived there, but Dimity must stay with Sophronia and the Hisselpennys. For they must all shop together.

  Dimity sent a letter to her parents from the inn, convinced that they would welcome the opportunity to punt her off to London. Sophronia made certain to confirm this in private.

  “They’re in the middle of a new invention. Plus, they never know what to do when only one of us is home. When it’s me and Pillover, they insist we can entertain each other. Sometimes I think that’s why they had two of us. Poor Pillover—as a baby it meant a lot of dress-up. Thank goodness I was older. Can you imagine what he might have done to me, if I were the younger? Doesn’t bear contemplating.”

  “Capital. I really am looking forward to it. And Petunia doesn’t realize we’ve been learning more than simply etiquette.” Sophronia gave her best evil smile.

  Dimity giggled. “Which speaks well of either your talent or her willingness to be deceived.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  Agatha shook her red curls. “You should take it as one, Sophronia. Remember what Lady Linette says about compliments?”

  “They are better than jewelry when hung about a girl.”

  Dimity was suspicious. “Which I’ve never quite believed, but if it’s what you’ve got, take it.”

  Petunia’s house was lovely, if not as grand as Agatha’s. It boasted two mechanicals, buttlinger and clangermaid, as well as a man-of-all-work and a cook. Dimity and Sophronia had to share a room, because the other was being converted to a nursery, but they had done so before and enjoyed the return to form.

  Petunia was inconvenienced most mornings and occasionally of an evening, which was enough separation for Sophronia to find her society bearable. The rest of the time Petunia was vested in paying calls and shopping as much as possible before her condition became apparent and she was forced into confinement.

  Sophronia left Bumbersnoot behind on most jaunts because of her sister’s evident dislike of the unfashionable accessory. No doubt he spent his time hunting stray bits of string and the occasional dust bunny, depositing in his turn small piles of ash in one corner of the room. Luckily for Sophronia, who had to clean it up, he always chose the same corner.

  Dimity was so enamored of the shops they visited that Petunia turned an increasingly fond eye to her. Sophronia would never have thought her friend and her sister could grow close, but already Dimity had a standing invitation to return for another visit, with or without Sophronia.

  “Would you look at those gloves? Have you ever seen anything so pretty? And the leather, it’s like butter.” Dimity was in ecstasies.

  “Oh my, yes, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, they are indeed divine. Do you think they could be made up to match Sophronia’s new walking dress? Oh, Mr. Pilldorff? Mr. Pilldorff, these exquisite little gloves, in mauve, do you think?”

  Sophronia nipped in to throw a spanner in the works simply because she could. “Did you see the lace ones, sister dear? Did you ever imagine such a thing as lace gloves?”

  Petunia’s head snapped up, not unlike that of an excited squirrel. “Lace? Did you say lace gloves? Surely, you jest, sister.”

  Sophronia rarely jested without purpose. She pointed mutely.

  Petunia and Dimity scuttled off to the other display, followed by the obsequious Mr. Pilldorff.

  Agatha sidled up to Sophronia. “What are you up to?”

  Sophronia wasn’t interested in gloves. In her line of work, their detrimental effect on dexterity left her mainly engaged in constant removal of said accessory. Although the reinforced leather tradesman style were invaluable for climbing ropes. “Causing a ruckus for my own amusement.”

  “They hardly need your assistance.”

  “True. My poor brother-in-law. Although he doesn’t seem to mind much.”

  Sophronia, after a few days’ confined acquaintance, was growing to like Mr. Hisselpenny. He was a gentleman of middling years with an ungentlemanly interest in investment banking and an unreasonable urge to spend most of his capital on his silly wife. Petunia could not have designed herself a more amiable husband. One could easily overlook the bushy eyebrows. Theirs was a match made in consumerism and pecuniary advancement. He liked the pecuniary aspect, and Petunia liked to consume.

  Sophronia and Agatha drifted to the back of the shop.

  “You’re doing well out of it.” Agatha gestured to the stack of packages they’d acquired on this one trip alone.

  “I do need new things.” Petunia had decent taste, and they had the same coloring, so Sophronia was tolerably confident in her selections. Occasionally, she voiced a preference for extra pockets or a stronger belt, practical choices that Petunia took into account, thank goodness, because the rest of the time Sophronia let her
decide. As a result, their sisterly relationship had only improved. “I’m not complaining, even if it is all in pursuit of an advantageously blue-blooded match.”

  Agatha smiled. “She married for money, so she thinks you should marry for rank?”

  “She saw me with Lord Mersey. For herself she wanted a husband who dotes, but for me…? I think she believes her new money plus my training at a finishing school can advance us both socially. Which sets up her progeny for improvement by association. That is, if she does not spend all her husband’s funds on gloves first.”

  Agatha was somewhat upset by this assessment. “I believe she actually enjoys spending time with you.”

  Sophronia was startled. “You think that likely?”

  Agatha looked almost pitying. “Must everyone have an ulterior motive, even your family? What has Mademoiselle Geraldine’s done to you?”

  For the first time Sophronia worried that her training—the first thing she had ever really been good at—was turning her hard. Was it negatively coloring her view of the world? It was protecting her, of course, but at what cost? And here was Agatha—whose father pushed her and whose mother was absent in all ways but death—noticing.

  Sophronia turned to her quiet little friend. “I don’t mean to be harsh.”

  “No, you don’t. That’s what worries me.”

  A glad cry from Mr. Pilldorff at the front of the shop distracted everyone. Petunia and Dimity, plus the other shoppers, moved in his direction. He had a new delivery from Paris. Even Agatha was tempted. Or perhaps she wanted to give Sophronia time alone to think. Agatha could be thoughtful like that.

  The distraction was, of course, something Sophronia found suspicious. Instead of gravitating toward the yelling, she looked around the shop—was someone trying to steal something? Perhaps Agatha was right and she saw conspiracies everywhere, but this was her training, and she couldn’t shake it.

  A tall young man materialized out of the workroom at the back of the shop. He brushed aside the curtain as if he had been there, milling hats, all this time. He was dressed elegantly in a cutaway jacket, buckskin breeches, and a modest top hat, with a single fall of emerald silk at his throat. Not quite a dandy, but certainly a man of fashion. He would have been nondescript, any one of a hundred gentlemen shopping on Bond Street, except that his skin was a dark mahogany color unheard of in society.

  Sophronia almost didn’t recognize him. Not because of time, for it had been only nine months, but because of the clothing and the way he moved. Before, he had been gangly, muscled and strong, but suffused with the awkwardness of nascent adulthood. Now his movements were liquid and his pace predatory, not all that surprising considering he was a werewolf.

  “I didn’t know the sun had set,” said Sophronia.

  “You’ve been here for ages. I was waiting for you to come out, but began to suspect you never would.”

  “Is that your doing?” Sophronia gestured to the chaos at the front of the shop.

  “Of course.”

  “Beautiful work.”

  The pause was awkward, full of unsaid truths and impossible actions. Sophronia’s brain swirled with options: apologies, confessions, caresses—so many possibilities that she froze with indecision. She had a wild desire to throw herself against him in a manner that would give her sister—and possibly Mr. Pilldorff—histrionics. Instead, her back snapped straight, inspired by thousands of lessons in posture. She held her hands stiff to her sides.

  Finally he spoke. “You smell like lemon and roses.”

  Impressive. Her bottle of tincture was with her, of course, but tightly shut. “It’s so good to see you again, Soap.”

  “I might better have believed that if you’d come to call when you first entered London.”

  “Be reasonable. I’m staying with my sister.”

  “Reasonable would remember you are trained in the art of subterfuge. How challenging is it for you, of all people, to sneak out of a town house?”

  “Touché.”

  “So? It is Lord Mersey after all?”

  “Felix? Don’t speak gammon. His father is a Pickleman.” Surprise shook Sophronia out of her stillness. She looked directly into Soap’s eyes. His face hadn’t changed much, though he clenched his jaw more.

  “His father always was a Pickleman.”

  “Yes, but once I thought he might rise above that. Now I know he can’t.” Why are we talking about Felix?

  “Because he betrayed you on the tracks?”

  “Because he betrayed all of us, and you were killed because of it.” Sophronia allowed a little of her frustration to leak into her words. Why is he simply standing there?

  “Oh, I remember that part.” Soap moved finally, so that they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, like spectators, watching Mr. Pilldorff and the ladies unpack and exclaim over the box of goodies. The ladies vied with one another to try on scarves, to compliment each other on such exquisite taste. Dimity and Agatha might have noticed Sophronia’s visitor, for they seemed intent on keeping Petunia occupied.

  “So, why haven’t you come to see me, then?” Soap spoke in one breath.

  He sounds… what? Frightened? “I didn’t know if I would be welcome.” Sophronia didn’t care for artifice with Soap. She never had. He was the only one granted the privilege of complete honesty. I wonder if he realizes that.

  “You bargained your freedom for my life. I can’t”—Soap paused, almost choking on his words—“I can’t ever repay that.”

  “You see? There it is. I don’t want debts owed between us.” She shifted infinitesimally closer to him and put two fingers very gently on his forearm where it curled at his waist.

  He looked down at her touch, then quickly up again. “Then what do you want between us?”

  “Friendship would be a start.”

  “No, miss, friendship would be a finish.”

  AN INVITATION TO DINE IN OR ON?

  Soap’s tone of voice was no longer servile, but colored with the attitude of an equal. He was now an immortal, and he had the superiority of time on his side. True, he would have to fight for that privilege against other werewolves. Much as he had to fight against madness for his soul every full moon. Sophronia supposed that would change anyone, even a former coal scuttler. With one bite, Soap had gone from sootie to supernatural. Where once skin and station had held him back, wolfskin and loner station had made him her equal in rank in the eyes of the law—if not society.

  He wasn’t going to dance to her whims anymore.

  Perhaps that’s really why I stayed away. So much has changed between us. Am I afraid that I am no longer the one in control? Bitter with herself, Sophronia lied. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  He moved then, supernaturally fast, one second the prescribed distance for renewing an old acquaintance, the next plastered up against her in an intimacy that would be permitted to no one in public—not husband, not brother, not child.

  “Soap! What are you—?”

  He slipped one hand about her waist and whirled them, as if in a waltz, behind the curtain and into the workroom. Sophronia’s feet never touched the ground. Soap had always been strong, but now she was nothing to him—biscuit light.

  Before she could get her bearings, his other hand reached up to touch the side of her face, a peculiarly Soap-ish gesture. She fixated on the fact that he hadn’t lost the calluses on his fingers. They had come with him into eternity. He was marked forever by a menial upbringing.

  She loved those calluses.

  Unthinking, Sophronia turned her face into his hand. Then she remembered how off this all was. How impossible. She moved as Captain Niall had taught her, a dip and twist, using leverage rather than strength to break his grip. It worked, but only because he was surprised.

  “It’s not only lemon and rose. You smell delicious.”

  Werewolf ability. Am I food? Sophronia wondered.

  She felt Soap lean in close enough for his breath to muss her curls, the ones skillfully arranged by Pet
unia’s French maid to fall over one ear.

  “No more friendship, Sophronia. That boiler is dry.”

  “What, then? We can’t be more.” Her voice almost hitched, and she forced it to steady. “There’s no future for us.” They could never marry, not even if the dewan blessed the match and permitted Soap to come out into supernatural society. Right now his metamorphosis was closeted. The dewan kept his cards close, and a new werewolf was an ace in the hole. Or is that ace in the closet? I’m getting my metaphors mixed up. She wasn’t sure on his reasons.

  Sophronia blamed her distracted thoughts on the persistent heart flutters that Soap’s proximity caused. Or was it excitement from their verbal sparring? Must be that.

  “I can hear them, you know.”

  “My thoughts?” Sophronia panicked, suspecting unreported werewolf abilities.

  “No, silly, your heartbeats. Gives me hope.”

  “I didn’t think they were that loud.”

  Soap tilted his head at her. “Supernatural hearing, remember? At first it was so strange. I had no idea there were so many small sounds all the time, everywhere. It took me months to function in the outside world and hear only what was important. And that’s not the half of it. Now I understand why new pups need an Alpha to guide them.”

  His speech patterns were so refined. Part of his werewolf training? Sophronia wondered.

  He drifted his hand over her cheek, sure but slow, as if gentling a horse. His old familiar grin lit up his face.

  “Soap, this is most unseemly.”

  The hand dropped.

  “And you could kill me in a thousand different ways if you wanted to.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Lost your ability?” Soap could not believe that.