Lady of Devices

chapter 20



She had never realized with such painful clarity how much she had taken even a shilling for granted. Without such a simple thing, she could not in good conscience take the Underground again to Victoria Station. She could not pay to have a tube sent from the Post Office, so she was forced to consider returning home. But Belgravia was a long walk from the docks.

Claire set her teeth. Snouts would return victorious. They would get the ingredients they needed for the gaseous devices. They would retrieve the landau tonight, and she would not have to walk anywhere henceforth. But in the meantime, she had miles to go, she was ravenously hungry, and her strictures against stealing were beginning to seem foolish.

No wonder Maggie wanted to stay behind to ensure the safety of the egg.

Claire felt dangerously out of place as she pushed and dodged her way along the streets. The markets might be closing up for the day, but the desperate crowds jostled her, men looked at her askance, and bands of thin, ragged children tugged at her skirts, begging. Little did they know she was as penniless and homeless as they. In fact, the only difference between them was that she possessed an education and a clean waist, and they did not. Her boot heel slipped in a mash of rotten fruit, and she fetched up against the side of a cart, whose owner shouted at her. Blushing, furious at her circumstances, she stumbled away and hurried up the street as fast as she was able, clutching her hat.

Half an hour’s sweating walk brought her back to the Embankment, and the sweep of another hour saw her at last in the quieter confines of Mayfair, where at least the air she breathed was free of stink and the invective of angry stall-keepers. Of course, she looked as though she had been dragged through a row of market stalls willy-nilly. Her skirt was stained in two places, her half-boots were filthy, and her navy straw hat had been knocked askew so many times she was sure her hair looked like a mares’ nest.

Wilton Crescent. Thank You, Lord. If she could only reach—

She stopped on the pavement as though she had run into a sheet of glass.

Broken windows. Charred walls. In the middle of the street, a huge black smear littered with coals of burned wood told her that Peony had been chillingly correct in her predictions. But what of Gorse and Mrs. Morven? Where had they gone? And was there anything left within?

She picked her way up the sidewalk. There was no hope of restoring the herringbone pattern of the brick—it had been crushed and broken beyond repair. The front door swung open with a creak that told her it had withstood severe strain, but would never lock again. The front hall was utterly empty. The drawing room a shambles—the velvet drapes pulled down and stolen, their rings kicked into the corners, all the furniture gone. The music room ... Claire gulped and steeled herself. Her harp had gone down to Cornwall on the dray, so at least she would not have the heartbreak of looking at its ruin. Then she blinked. The piano was still here. She touched a key. Its weight must have defeated the mob—and they must have forgotten to bring axes along to demolish it inside. But it stood in a room that was empty save for the broken glass on the parquet floor.

“Mrs. Morven?” she called on the stairs to the kitchen. “Gorse? Are you here?”

Silence answered her—the most profound she had ever heard in the house.

The kitchen had, of course, been looted of everything Mrs. Morven had so carefully inventoried. A few pots remained, sundry bits of cutlery, even a basket. But she had to admit this was more than they had in her current bolt-hole, where the sole cooking implements were a spirit lamp, a cast-iron fry-pan, and a dented copper pot, all lifted from various refuse heaps after having been tossed as unusable.

An idea whisked through her brain like a rat disturbed in a dark room. This was still her home—and even in its broken state it was better shelter than the slant-roofed squat. Could she bring Snouts and his gang here until the terms of her bargain were fulfilled?

She climbed the stairs, noting that several of the oak spindles in the banister had been kicked out, likely to serve as kindling for the bonfire outside. The bedrooms had been looted, too, and most of the linens carried away. But for a miracle, the mattress remained on her bed, askew in its mahogany frame. The combination of the four-poster’s weight and the pitch of the staircase had probably saved it. And look, the linens in the closet, set discreetly into the wall, were still here. But the books had been tumbled from the bookcase and scattered from one end of the third floor to the other. Half of them appeared to have been used for kindling as well.

With a sigh, her heart like a boat-anchor in her chest, she proceeded to the fourth floor. For a miracle, nothing seemed to have been broken or even disturbed. They had not reached this far. A busy buzzing sound caught her attention, and she pushed open the door to what had been Silvie’s room. The last mother’s helper paddled busily at the dhurrie as though nothing were amiss.

Claire sat suddenly on a ladder-back chair while the tears welled uncontrollably in her eyes. The mother’s helper was almost the only thing remaining from her old life. To see it going about its business as though Silvie would come running in at any moment to fetch some skin salve for Lady St. Ives was so ridiculous and comical and pathetic that Claire could not help it.

“What am I going to do?” she asked it when the paroxysm of grief had passed. Her chest jerking with a dry sob, she palmed the tears from her cheeks like a child. “What will become of us all?”

The mother’s helper bumped against the iron leg of the bedstead, turned left, and buzzed beneath it, intent upon its duty. It had no answers for her. She must come up with them herself.

First things first. Was there still a sheet of paper in the house? And a tube?

The answer to the first was no. Not one, unless she counted the end-papers of the books on the floor. But three tubes waited in the vacuum chamber, thank goodness. The first was a letter from the butler at Wellesley House, welcoming Gorse to the staff and stating that his duties would begin on the twenty-first of June.

Claire had lost track of her life so thoroughly that she could not for the life of her think what the date might be. She opened the next tube. A bill from Madame du Barry for her evening dresses. With a snort, she laid it aside. The back would do nicely for her purposes, and the good lady was going to have to sing for her dresses. The third tube contained a single card with—how very strange—Andrew Malvern’s name and address on the front. She turned it over. The word concerned was written on the back in what appeared to be charcoal in an almost unintelligible scrawl. She had seen Mr. Malvern’s square, legible hand on some of the documents on his desk, and unless he had deteriorated substantially in the last several days, this was not his writing.

Singular. And puzzling. Concerned. Hm. She was no concern of his. He would do better to turn his energies to his choice of business partner.

She slipped the card into her glove and began searching the kitchen. At length, rammed at the back of a drawer, she found a stub of pencil. Her mother would find it an even greater puzzle to receive a letter written on the back of a bill, but desperate times required desperate measures, and the escritoire was probably in Exeter by now.



Dear Mama,

I hope this finds you and my brother well. You should be seeing the arrival of the dray with the small items of furniture and plate shortly. It left Saturday. We are having a little difficulty selling Carrick House but I expect Mr. Arundel will continue to do his best.

I have taken a position as governess to six children, ranging in age from fourteen to four, including twin girls. They have no shortage of intelligence and we are presently engaged in learning our numbers. For this reason I will not be joining you and my brother for some few weeks. My position is not permanent, but it is necessary at present.

Your loving daughter,

Claire



She spun the letters and numbers on the tube to form the code for Gwynn Place, and watched the vacuum system suck it away to the Victoria switching station, where it would begin the series of relays down to Cornwall. So, for at least a few weeks, her mother would believe her to be safe and would be unlikely to dispatch a bobby to escort her to Victoria Station and ensure that she boarded the Dutchman.

Claire climbed the stairs and found an endpaper lying on the hall runner that would do nicely for Emilie.



My dear friend,

I am sorry I could not stay to converse with you last night, but twilight was falling and I needed to reach my aunts Beaton without delay. You will be happy to know I have taken a position as a governess. It offers more independence than I expected and I am presently engaged in the study of mathematics with my six charges.

I will be much occupied over the next several weeks but I beg you not to worry.

Your affectionate

Claire



With a hiss, the second missive began its much briefer journey over to Cadogan Square. Claire could only hope that Emilie was in the habit of intercepting her own mail, otherwise she would have sacrificed an end-paper to the Fragonard drawing-room fire. She returned to the third floor and began to collect end-papers and frontispieces from the shards of books on the floor. If Tigg and the others were to advance beyond the four times table, she would need something to write on. She tucked them in her satchel and surveyed the bedrooms. What else? Linens? No. There were no beds to put them on. Basin and ewer? Smashed. Clothes? She was hard put to carry the trunk she had. No point in bringing anything else along.

The painful truth was, she could not bring anything from her old life with her. Nor could she bring Snouts and the others here, sensible though that idea was. They could not be coming and going in Mayfair without danger of arrest simply for being who they were. It was up to her to resign herself to living rough until she had done what she had promised to do.

But in the meantime, life could be made a little easier, could it not? Back on the fourth floor, in Mrs. Morven’s room, she found a spare packet of tooth powder and a bar of soap. The good lady would not begrudge them, and Claire would reimburse her as soon as she could. She scooped up the mother’s helper and it immediately stopped moving. Tucking it under her arm, she descended the stairs.

Where was Mrs. Morven? And Gorse?

She had no way to tell them she was safe, and no way to find out if they were. All she could do was leave a note in their shambles of a kitchen and hope that one of them would return and find it. She wrote something brief and cheerful on an end-paper and left it on the chopping block. Then she picked up half a dozen metal forks and two slightly bent knives from the floor and tucked them in her satchel, with the mother’s helper going into the basket. If there was to be food today, at least they would have the wherewithal to eat it.

Food. Her stomach must surely be sticking to her backbone. In this house of plenty, could she not at least find something to keep body and soul together? At the very back of the cold cupboard, she found an apple, aged and wrinkled. With relief and a sense that she was behaving very much like poor Rosie, she devoured it in seconds. It did not fill her stomach, but at least she could face the long walk back to the squat with something approaching fortitude.

The squat. Another night lying on the rag-pile. And the prospect of Jake, who would have knifed her if his fear hadn’t overridden his hatred.

Outside on the step, she ran a gentle hand over the panels of the door as it did its best to close. For a moment, she leaned against it, eyes closed, breathing in the smell of paint and slightly splintered wood. Then she turned her face to the street and steeled herself to leave home once again.