Lady of Devices Read online

  “Oh dear.” Emilie appeared to do a quick calculation. “There is two weeks’ worth of writing replies between here and the hall.”

  “At least. I can’t bear to think of it.”

  “Think instead of the kindness of all your family’s acquaintance,” Emilie said gently. “They wish you to know they’re thinking of you.”

  “I know,” Claire took a letter out of a tube on top of the stack and smoothed it flat. “And I appreciate it. I do. But what do I say to everyone? No one really believes what the Times said and we don’t dare refute it.”

  Emilie took the letter from Claire’s hands. “They would not be so crass as to speak it aloud. Stick to the main point—their condolences. And for that I have just the thing. Have you forgotten my Multiple Nib Scrivener?”

  “You’re assigning me lines?” Was this meant to take her mind off her situation?

  “No, you goose. Where is your mourning stationery?” She rustled through the pigeonholes of the escritoire. “Never mind, I have it. We line up the reply cards like so—” She laid them out like dominoes and seated herself at the table. The ten nibs of her device hung poised above the creamy stationery. “—and begin composing. What would you like to say?”

  “What would I do without you?” Claire gathered her wits and tried to remember what she and her mother had done when Grandmother Trevelyan had gone to her eternal reward. “We so much appreciate your kindness during this painful time,” she began slowly. Emilie’s nibs scratched along, following her. “The viscount, Lady St. Ives, and I are thankful for your thoughts and trust that God will keep us in His hand.”

  “Is His capitalized?”

  “Yes.”

  “‘... hand.’ Anything else?”

  “No. Hand them to me and I’ll sign them. Fortunately we use the same ink. India Black.”

  Emilie gave her a look over the rims of her spectacles. “Was that a joke?”

  Claire winced. “No, I’m sorry. Merely bad taste.”

  “I think it’s good. It’s a sign that maybe in time you’ll recover.”

  “I suppose I will. And Nicholas will be fine, except for the tragedy of his never knowing Father. Never learning how to ride with him like I did. Never seeing him come in at dinnertime and running into his arms, as I did.” She reached into her sleeve for her damp handkerchief.

  “But you can teach him how to drive the steam landau when the time comes.” Emilie’s eyes were soft with understanding, and Claire hung onto her self-control with difficulty.

  “That’s true,” she said, swallowing the tears down. “That much I can do.” She picked up the next batch of tubes and began extracting their contents. All she had to do was reverse the address on each tube and pop a reply in. Emilie deserved to have won the all-around academic award. She was brilliant. “At this rate we could be finished by teatime, just in time for the next mail.”

  “It almost makes you wish you had no acquaintance, doesn’t it?” Emilie bent to her task.

  “Almost.” Claire directed her attention to the pile in earnest.

  Chapter 8

  The offices of Arundel & Hollis, Solicitors, were nearly as posh as the prime minister’s house, in Claire’s informed opinion. A clerk guided them to a heavily carved oak door whose brass plate identified it as belonging to the corner suite of Mr. Richard Arundel. A man of rather more dashing years than his position might suggest came out of it and greeted Lady St. Ives, bowing in his beautifully cut Savile Row suit.

  “My heartfelt condolences upon your loss, my lady,” he said, clasping her black-gloved hand in both his bare ones. “I am so glad you saw fit to call upon us in this difficult time.”

  Since they were there for the reading of her father’s will, Claire thought this was going a little far, but of course she said nothing.

  Mr. Arundel guided them over to a pair of armchairs upholstered in glossy burgundy leather and studded in brass, placed strategically beneath a huge map of the Empire. He ordered the clerk to bring tea, and when it arrived, he invited Claire to pour. When she had handed the cups around, he took a sip and began.

  “His Lordship entrusted the bulk of his business dealings to this firm, as well as his personal instruments. Following the reading of the will, I am happy to be in a position to apprise you of your situation—would it be appropriate to do so now, or should I wait for a more convenient time?”

  Beneath the shroud of her black point d’esprit veil, Lady St. Ives’s head drooped. On her knee, her tea in its delicate Sèvres cup cooled, untouched.

  Claire cleared her throat. “Mr. Arundel, my mother’s spirits may be taxed by such an apprisal, but I assure you it is necessary. This morning we were accosted by a number of dunner-men at our very door. It’s imperative we learn of the state in which my father left his affairs so we can end such nonsense.”

  Mr. Arundel eyed her, then Lady St. Ives. “Very well. Shall we begin?” At her mother’s nod, he went on, “His lordship’s will is fairly straightforward. Gwynn Place, of course, goes to the infant Viscount in its entirety—lands, house, incomes and rents. Since Carrick House came into the family after the marriage of yourself and the late viscount, it goes to you, Lady St. Ives, with the proviso that it go to Lady Claire upon your decease, even if you should marry again and have, er, issue by that marriage.”

  Claire had not expected this. She’d thought the lot would go to Nicholas. Goodness. The prospect of a house to depend upon in her middle years—or a refuge now should she prevail and be allowed to go to university—was a gift she had not considered in all her wildest dreams.

  “There are, of course, the usual small bequests to the servants, and a marriage portion for Lady Claire when she reaches eighteen years of age in the autumn.” Mr. Arundel paused to fold up the creamy sheets of the will. “Which brings me to the next, rather less straightforward part of our meeting today. My lady, are you sure you can bear this now?”

  Her mother cleared her throat, as though she was not quite certain her voice would work properly. She lifted her veil and placed it carefully on the wide, heavily decorated brim of her black straw hat. “Quite sure, thank you, Mr. Arundel.” Finally, she took a sip of tea.

  Claire poured herself a second cup.

  “Very well. How familiar are you with the business operations of the Persia-Albion Petroleum Company?”

  “Not at all. My late husband was often in the Lords, voting on matters that concerned it, but he did not share his affairs with me.”

  “Ah. Had you heard, then, of the collapse of what they are calling the Arabian Bubble?”

  “No, Mr. Arundel.” Lady St. Ives passed a hand over her bone-white brow. “Could we get to the point, please?”

  “Quite.” The lines of sympathy in his face smoothed out a trifle. “The point, then, is that as its principal investor, the bulk of His Lordship’s capital was tied up in the Persia-Albion Petroleum Company. He believed deeply in the future of petroleum and its application to the combustion engine. Unfortunately, any and all models of this engine have been failures, and some have even resulted in fatalities. The public, once so enthusiastically in its favor, has turned the tide of its opinion, pulling its support. Two Fridays ago it was discovered that all public shares of the Company were worth less than the paper they were printed on, and the entire enterprise collapsed. Your husband’s capital, and that of the other investors, has gone to pay the public debt. In short, my lady, it appears that you will have no source of income to ease your widowhood.”

  “No source of income.” Impossible. “What about Gwynn Place? Our family has been living on the income from that for centuries.”

  “Your father mortgaged it to invest in the P.A.P.C. When all the debts are settled, you will be fortunate indeed to have the house itself. I have already been approached by prospective buyers for the land.”

  Lady St. Ives lifted her head. “Mr. Arundel, I may be Londoner born and bred, but even I know that an estate without its lands cannot support itself. I
forbid you to sell any property attached to Gwynn Place. It is my son’s heritage.”

  He inclined his head. “Very astute of you, my lady. That will mean, of course, that Carrick House will have to be sold immediately.”

  The bottom dropped out of Claire’s stomach. “How soon is immediately?”

  “By month’s end. You did say you wished the importunities of the dunner-men to stop.” He smiled, but at the same time, Claire detected real concern in his gaze.

  “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Arundel.” She straightened, and put the cup of tea on the low mahogany table between them.

  “If we sell Carrick House, the mortgages against Gwynn Place will be repaid?” Lady St. Ives asked.

  “I cannot promise that. As you can imagine, many find themselves in the same straits at this time, and there will be many houses for sale shortly. But I could negotiate with the banks on your behalf, and do what I can.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Arundel. We are in your debt.”

  Claire winced at this unfortunate choice of words. “What is your advice for the immediate future, Mr. Arundel?”

  “Public opinion is running rather high at the moment, I fear. It would be prudent if you were to take some time in the country during your bereavement. No one would think it out of the ordinary, and to be blunt, there may be riots.”

  “Good heavens.” The blood drained from Claire’s face, leaving her skin clammy and cold. “You can’t be serious. Riots? In Belgravia?”

  “Feeling is running high against the Bloods at the moment. Your personal situation aside, the House of Lords is in a state of chaos. There is even talk of a revolution. It would be very, very wise to quietly pack up Carrick House, dismiss the staff, and board the Flying Dutchman by the end of the week, if you can possibly do it.”

  Claire wished that she had not insisted on being laced quite so tightly this morning. She was finding it difficult to breathe.

  “The end of the week?” How was it possible that the life she knew, the life she had taken so completely for granted, could be over by the end of the week? And it was already Wednesday. “We cannot possibly vacate Carrick House that quickly.”

  “Then I recommend you pack as you would for a tour of the Continent, and board that train regardless.” His gaze held hers in all seriousness. “For his infant lordship’s sake alone, if for no other reason.”

  “You are right, of course, Mr. Arundel.” The snap had come back into her mother’s eyes at the mention of Nicholas. The lioness, it was clear, had been roused at last at the thought of danger to her cub. “We cannot win this battle, but we can retreat and retrench, to fight again another day.” Claire raised her eyebrows. “I will take Nicholas and repair to Gwynn Place on Saturday at the latest. Claire will stay to oversee the disposition of the furniture and the servants, and follow me by the end of the month, as you said.”

  “But Mama—” Claire struggled against the current of her mother’s will as her choices flew by, every bit as unreachable as the banks of the Amazon. “What about the Season? Being married by the fall?”

  “Nonsense. There will be no Season—we are in mourning.” Her mother rose, smoothing the crisp black figured silk of her skirts. The beading on her bodice winked in the lamplight, for Mr. Arundel had the velvet curtains drawn against the morning sun. “Mr. Arundel, I assume I may distribute my husband’s bequests for our servants before I dismiss them?”

  “You may. But I fear Lady Claire’s marriage portion ...”

  “... will have to go to pay the debts,” Lady St. Ives finished. “I understand. How much was that?”

  “Twenty thousand pounds, my lady.”

  All the breath whooshed out of Claire’s body, and she was profoundly thankful she had not yet stood up. Twenty thousand pounds! She could have gone for a master’s degree at Oxford with that—and financed an expedition to the Amazon on top of it! And then lived happily in Carrick House, hosting salons and entertaining the leading intellects of the day. How could Papa have done this to them all? It was apparent to even a baby that steam was the technology the world ran on—how could he have been so foolish as to gamble their futures on petroleum? Their very lives?

  The image of her father as an all-knowing, godlike figure who controlled the destiny of the nation began to crumble—first his feet, then his legs and trunk, until the last thing to go in her mind’s eye was his smile and his crinkly brown eyes.

  “Lady Claire? Are you quite all right?” Mr. Arundel bent to look her in the face. “Some more tea, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.” She swallowed her anger and struggled for civility. “I’m—I’m just trying to take it all in. It’s quite a shock.”

  “It is, and I am deeply sorry to be the bearer of unpleasant news. But I felt it was better to be honest than falsely solicitous.” From the door, Lady St. Ives gazed over their heads, fixed on some uncertain view. The solicitor leaned closer. “Forgive me for making a personal remark, my lady, but I understand you are a young woman of considerable intellect. You might consider taking up a career of some sort.”

  Claire blinked at him. “You mean ... work? Go into trade? Is it as bad as that?”

  The solicitor straightened. “I’m afraid so. Without a marriage portion, you join the already well-populated ranks of impoverished Blooded ladies looking for a secure marriage. At least if you could make your own way in the world you would not have to sail those uncertain waters.”

  Claire had always wanted to join the ranks of the engineers of the Royal Society, traveling to far-off lands in support of the devices she would invent. Bridges across the wild rivers of the American Territories. Laboratories in India. Roads in South America. But that took money. Without it, her dreams were as fanciful as fairy tales and even less likely to have happy endings.

  “But without going to university, what could I do?”

  Mr. Arundel looked into her eyes and spoke with conviction. “You are a young lady of spirit and capability. I should begin by closing Carrick House. And then I should find friends with whom I could take refuge, and begin answering advertisements.”

  She didn’t even know where to look for advertisements. “Thank you. I shall let you know what I decide.”

  Lady Claire Trevelyan had walked into this office half an hour ago with brains, spirit, and a family fortune. She left it with the first two still intact.

  That was something to be thankful for, at least.

  Chapter 9

  Directly upon removing her hat, Lady St. Ives dispatched a tube down to Gwynn Place to prepare the staff for their arrival on Saturday. “Despite what Mr. Arundel suggests, I would rather go to Cornwall by airship,” she told Claire, tugging on the bell to summon the housekeeper.

  “Mama, you cannot. With as much luggage as a trip to the Continent, the weight charges would amount to a fortune.”

  “I have never had to concern myself with such a thing, child, and I resent having to think of it now.”

  Claire thought quickly. “Besides, the public will expect you to go by airship. There could be demonstrations on Hampstead Heath, and I shudder to think what might happen if you took Nicholas there. If you go by train you slip out of town undetected.”

  Lady St. Ives’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time, Claire saw the faintest tracings of lines at the corners. “I will allow no harm to come to my son. Perhaps you are right. We must put Nicholas first, regardless of the inconvenience to ourselves.” She glared at Claire as if she had been the one insisting on the airship, but Claire did not protest. She would far rather have the lioness than the defeated, weeping woman who had haunted the viscount’s rooms this past week.

  Her mother assembled the staff that very noon and delivered the unhappy news to them. She distributed the viscount’s bequests and promised everyone, right down to the scullery maid, a letter of reference before the week was out. Only Penwith, two footmen, the nursemaid, and Silvie would go with her to Cornwall.

  As the upstairs maid came into her mothe
r’s room to light the lamps that evening, Claire paused in her packing, a froth of fashionable evening dresses on the bed beside her. “Mama, Mrs. Morven is staying until we close the house, isn’t she? If she isn’t, I must inform you that cookery was not my strongest subject.”

  “Of course. I would not leave you alone in an empty house, prey for every brigand roaming the streets. Silvie, the lavender damask goes next. I shall want it when the year of mourning is up.” Carefully, with layers of tissue between each fold, Claire helped Silvie lay the damask in the steamer trunk next to the bed. “Except for those going to Gwynn Place, the staff will stay on until the end of the month. You must send a tube telling us which train you will take and I’ll have someone meet you at St. Ives station with the trap.”

  Claire took a deep breath, Mr. Arundel’s words still fresh in her mind. “I’ve been thinking, Mama.”

  “Yes?” Her voice came muffled from the closet.

  “I believe I should like to stay in town a little longer.”

  Lady St. Ives emerged with a fresh armful and handed it to Silvie. “Longer than what?”

  “The end of the month.”

  “Nonsense. The staff are all leaving.”

  “If we could keep Mrs. Morven on, I could—”

  “The black walking skirts should go on top. I shall want them immediately when we arrive.” The topic closed, her mother had already returned to the matter at hand, dismissing her daughter as though she were a servant—as though her thoughts and wishes did not matter. Resentment burned in Claire’s chest, her corset restricting its rise.

  She took the walking skirts from Silvie, placed them on top, laid a layer of tissue on top of them, and closed the trunk. “Mama, I do not wish to go down to Cornwall right away, I wish to stay in London and look for employment.”

  A full five seconds of silence passed. Perhaps, in the depths of the closet, she had not heard. “Mama? I said—”

  “I heard you.” Lady St. Ives emerged with a rack of evening slippers and calling shoes. “This is no time for silly jokes. Save the next trunk for unmentionables, please. Silvie, you may pack them in the morning.”