A Clockwork River, page 29
Flushing slightly, Jacky-boy dug an ornate, old, oval locket on a stout, brass chain from underneath his shirt. He would not let Melchior take the locket from his hand, but he removed it from around his neck and held it open for the old man to examine.
“Your mother,” said Melchior.
“Yes,” said Jacky-boy reverently.
When Sam came back, tucking the letter for Deligris into the inside pocket of his twill coat and complaining that without the belt his pants were loose, Jacky showed him the cameo too. “My mother,” he said. “She had to give me up when I was born, but she left this to remember her by.” He hesitated a moment. “You can hold it for a moment, if you like.”
The ivory silhouette was heavily stylized and could have been any pretty, young lady with a pile of hair over a fine face with a straight nose. The little lock of faded, brown hair attached to it with a silver clasp and the cursive initials C. V. engraved around the portrait’s mother-of-pearl frame were scarcely less anonymous. But the trinket obviously meant a great deal to Jacky-boy. The lad shared so little of himself that Sam felt it a great honor to let the piece rest for a moment in his palm.
“She seems very beautiful,” said Sam, “and very kind.”
A brightly lacquered keelboat sailed as if by magic to the dock where it came lightly to rest. “It is already provisioned with food and drink for your journey,” said Melchior. “I trust, trust it will be a pleasant one. Farewell, friends!”
Susannah leaped lightly onto the prow and stood holding the oar in her strong, bare arms. Her white teeth and her black eyes flashed as she called to the others to join her. Jacky snatched back the locket and ran, with Sam, pell-mell through the maze of ropes and bollards, the locket clutched tight in the ball of his fist and its chain lashing the air until his ankle caught on a hawser. As he threw out his hands to break the fall, his heirloom skidded over the flagstones.
“Mother!” cried Jacky-boy, as the locket slid over the edge of a loading chute, its long brass chain skittering behind. Leaping and grasping, he plummeted headfirst after it. “Jacky-boy!” yelled Sam, seizing his companion by two scissoring ankles. Susannah threw aside her boat pole and rushed to Sam’s aid as he teetered sickeningly on the slimy stone lip of the abyss. Jacky’s ankles twisted in Sam’s grip, and he began to slip into the maw of the river. Screams and torrential water resounded in his ears. He heard Susannah cry his name from very far away. “Sam!” she cried again, pulling on his legs. Then Sam’s pants shot over his hips, and he was hurtling through the chute into the black, deafening torrent below.
XXVIII
In which the Spurwell family performs an errand of mercy.
Mr Spurwell, warmly sandwiched between two enormous dresses and with his feet resting on a heated brick, looked even more unhappy and put-upon than usual.
“Can you imagine the reaction, Fanny?” Mrs Spurwell was crying over the rattle of the carriage wheels, as cheerful as the brilliant winter sun that played on their lacquered spokes. “The shock! The jealousy! There’s to be an entire row of them, mind you, each more handsome than the last!”
“Marabella,” Mr Spurwell interrupted, batting irritably at a spangled bow that bobbed up and down in front of his nose. “Why don’t I set you and Fanny down at Lady Eisen’s? She would no doubt be glad of a visit.”
“Do you hear that, Fanny?” Looking like a large, comfortable cabbage amidst a sea of cascading purple petticoats, Mrs Spurwell leaned forward to address her daughter. “Your father wishes us to visit Lady Eisen, when I saw her only yesterday at the whist table and had all her news.”
Fanny was leaning against the window, twisting a lock of golden hair upon her little finger, looking pale and wan in a gown the color of new leaves and with ashy half-moons beneath her eyes. “Does he?” she sat up abruptly. “Then he has certainly never passed a quarter of an hour with that woman’s daughter. She will talk of cross-stitch patterns with those awful horsey teeth until I long to stab myself with an embroidery needle.”
“Too true, my love!” cried her mother. “We had much better perform this errand of mercy.”
“But I am quite sure that Captain Muldoon wished for a more intimate meeting,” interjected Mr Spurwell, kicking his short legs in their patent-leather gaiters in a spasm of irritation. “The tone of his letter was grave and indicated a manner of some import.”
“La! I’m surprised your father is not ashamed to mention that letter, seeing as he was determined to hide its very existence.” Mrs Spurwell scooted forward and continued unperturbed across her husband’s vest. “I am very glad you chanced to find it, Fanny. Now tomorrow is a different matter,” Mrs Spurwell continued cheerfully. “Tomorrow, I shall certainly visit Mrs Eisen and probably Lady Chambers and Mrs Piper as well, for I’m certain to have learned something of interest. They say Angeline LaBida was in Captain Muldoon’s jail cell in ravishing, spangled muslin, and had positively to be wrenched from his side!”
“Hideous, cheap, muslin gown,” Fanny muttered under her breath. She stuck her rabbit-fur muff against the window and laid her head on it like a little pillow, stroking its soft, white fur as she stared through the glass.
I am sorry to say that almost killing the object of her affection had not cured Fanny of her infatuation. In fact, the idea that Captain Muldoon had very nearly escaped her reach for all eternity had made her quite sick with love. She no longer tasted food but lived in a devouring daydream that gobbled up everything real until there was nothing left in her head but tiny Fannys and tiny Captain Muldoons endlessly swooning and fencing and leaping over tall obstacles and rushing toward one another across sunlit meadows without pause until poor Fanny (the real one) was utterly exhausted.
Her favorite among the shadow plays that worked constantly in her head was the one in which the captain was now, at this very moment, albeit under the influence of some powerful chemical, pining away with love for her. Why should Briony’s love potion prove any less effective than her poison? It was true that Fanny had been disguised as a footman at the time and that Briony had also been in the captain’s sights at the pivotal moment, but the disguise was a minor detail, and Fanny could not bring herself to fear a rival with no bosoms to speak of. With these engrossing thoughts for company, the remainder of the ride passed swiftly by, and the Spurwells soon alighted before the military hospital, where a nurse with a fluttering wimple ushered them through long, straight halls to the captain’s room.
At the door, they were met by a white-haired doctor in a long frock coat who spoke in low tones that were further muffled by the insulating waterfall of a neatly combed walrus moustache. “The captain has passed out of immediate danger, but you must take the utmost care not to upset him,” he warned, plucking a chart from a little table in the foyer that was crowded with cheerful nosegays, bumpy packages wrapped in wax paper and smelling of cinnamon, and a thick stack of cards attesting to the kindness and concern of Captain Muldoon’s friends. “His aortic membranes remain dangerously inflamed. He carries a heart of glass within his chest; the slightest agitation may shiver it to pieces. I trust in your good sense, Mr Spurwell, to keep the conversation simple and pleasant.”
Mr Spurwell gave his wife and daughter a meaningful glance, but as the former was busy powdering her nose, and the latter secreting a lavender envelope into her reticule, there was very little hope that they noticed. They proceeded into a large room appointed with flowers and furniture and a marble-topped table set with silver trays upon which were arranged a stethoscope, an opthalmoscope, an ear trumpet, sparkling lancets, pewter basins, a set of nesting speculums, mortars and pestles of various sizes and a rainbow of tonics and tinctures in hourglass-shaped vials. Fanny, who had her heart set on throwing herself down at the captain’s bedside and weeping, was disappointed to find him sitting up over a sketch pad, but she took comfort in the observation that he certainly did not look well. A saffron, velvet dressing gown was tossed carelessly over his nightshirt, and his loose hair fell over hollowed cheeks and a single feverishly glittering eye. At the sight of his visitors, he touched his eyepatch and prepared to swivel to his feet, only to be pressed bodily back into the chair by Mrs Spurwell’s ample embrace.
“Poor lamb! Poor moppet! Don’t you dare get up, you naughty boy. Fanny and I intend to nurse you!”
Mr Spurwell hastened forward to wring the soldier’s hand. “The ladies...” He gestured with an apologetic air. “They insisted on coming. They are so fond of you, you see!”
Captain Muldoon rose resolutely, shoved his hands in his pockets, took them out again and ran them through his hair. “Perhaps it is for the best,” he said finally. “The subject at hand cannot but interest them as well.”
Fanny had no time to wonder what the captain could mean by such a mysterious phrase for now he was actually standing in front of her, instead of leaping about inside her head, and although he was shorter in person, Fanny still felt quite weak and could barely bring herself to present a trembling, little, plump, gloved hand. Alas, it was claimed, kissed and discarded in a distracted fashion that did not hint at the mildest interest, let alone a powerful enchantment. Fanny sank heavily into a chair and dropped her head onto her elbows.
In the meantime, Mrs Spurwell spied the sketch pad abandoned on the secretary and pounced upon it.
“Captain, you bad man!” she cooed as she leafed rapidly through the pages. “Why have you never told us you are an artist? How wonderful to be able to draw! If I had your clever fingers, I would spend the entire day making likenesses. Indeed, if I had any talents at all, I should be very industrious.” She held the pad out at length to admire a carefully rendered pencil drawing of an embroidered footman’s coat over a pair of fine legs. A dark roughness above the cravat hinted that a face had been attempted but later rubbed away. “Why! Is that our livery?”
All this time, the captain had not been listening, but had been walking to and fro, twisting his moustache, and now his restive strides carried him up to Mr Spurwell, where he paused, biting his lip. At last, he burst out resolutely, “Sir, no doubt you think me ungrateful. I know how it must appear. My conscience is heavy indeed. I must admit that I have not only lost your footman, I have agreed to duel him.”
“What’s this? A duel? Surely you are in no condition, sir!” began Mr Spurwell with a look of mild panic.
“Fanny!” called Mrs Spurwell in a surprised tone. “Has your father gone and given away another footman?”
“Allow me to assure you that your compliment was very deeply felt,” continued the captain, twisting a lace-trimmed handkerchief in one hand. “Your generosity, your overwhelming and surprising generosity, in entrusting to me a most valuable, a most singular, footman will not go unpaid.”
These last words, uttered as they were with great intensity, had the effect of rousing Fanny from her swoon. She whirled round in her seat and fixed the captain with a piercing look.
“What did this footman look like?” demanded Fanny. “Was he pleasantly plump? Or extremely bony? Was his nose as straight and long as a carrot? Or sweetly upturned? Did he not”—something of her old enthusiasm entered Fanny’s voice, and she actually bounced in her chair—“have wonderfully comely legs?”
“His legs? Good God, his legs!” The captain’s voice grew hoarse, and he stared as if transfixed as his quivering fingers traced the air. “Long, firm, round of calf…”
“My dear fellow!” Mr Spurwell rushed to the captain’s side and thrust a glass of water into his hands. “Such warmth of expression! A cooling drink, sir...”
“But his face,” Fanny pursued. “Come, describe him!”
Uncertainty clouded the captain’s brow, and he cast his eyes to the floor as if searching for a lost coin. “He had… he had a noble face... Something about it stirred me deeply, but do not ask me to describe it. It is no doubt due to the severity of my attack, but no matter how I rack my brains, I can only recall it in pieces that fit together very ill. How could he have the forthright proboscis of a hero and, at the same time, the sweetest of dimples? It makes no sense. In truth, I cannot even remember his name. But his situation,” the captain stepped forward with the noiseless grace shared by dancers and swordsmen, and laid a hand delicately upon Mrs Spurwell’s shoulder, at the same time fixing Mr Spurwell with an earnest gaze and lowering his voice which vibrated with emotion, “his most particular situation remains etched with the stylus of sympathy upon my heart – the broken heart of a natural Vanderslaang.”
Mr Spurwell began to look really alarmed and looked longingly in the direction of the door where he had last seen the doctor. “Sir, I cannot pretend to know of what you speak, but I beg of you to leave off this foolish talk. Let us talk of pleasant things.”
The captain shook his head stubbornly. “If you prefer not to speak of it, I will respect your silence,” he replied. “I only wish you to know that you have chosen well. The combination of inclination and history has already steeped duty into love. He shall be a footman no longer, but my bosom friend. After I purchase his commission and his horse, he shall ride beside me as my equal.”
Fanny rose impulsively. Two crimson patches glowed like coals from her pale cheeks. “This person has made an impression on you!”
“He has!” thrilled the captain with trembling eagerness to match Fanny’s own.
A radiant smile, complete with dimples, burst forth onto Fanny’s countenance. “But why then do you insist upon this infernal duel? Surely, you would not want to harm the object of your affection!”
“Harm him? No. I would only cure him of a sullen and insolent disposition while welcoming him into the company of gentlemen.” Noticing Fanny stiffen, the captain gave her elbow an affectionate squeeze. “It will only be a trifling wound! A mere scratch will suffice. A scar is the ornament of an honorable man. Why, I have one myself,” he explained, flipping up his eyepatch for a moment from his hollow socket. “But there is still the problem of finding him,” the captain finished disconsolately, turning away from Fanny’s suddenly doubtful countenance and supplicating to Mr Spurwell. “He slipped away while I was unconscious. It was my hope that he had returned home or, rather, to your service.”
“My dear man,” replied Mr Spurwell in a desperate tone. “Whoever this wretched footman may be, I assure you he is not at my house. Let us talk of other things. Marabella, tell the captain of your plans for the Commissioner’s Ball.”
Mrs Spurwell bustled over and threaded one arm cosily through the captain’s, but she did not speak of the Commisioner’s Ball at all. “Oh, Captain! I understand your pain exactly. I am still reeling – reeling – from the loss of dear Florian.”
“Madame.” The captain replied with barely restrained feeling. “I can only imagine what you have suffered.”
Mr Spurwell’s neck turned a lobsterish shade, and with subtle jerks of his neatly trimmed eyebrows, he telegraphed his wife a look of stern warning.
“Did you know that his hair is red beneath his wig?” Mrs Spurwell continued, ignoring her husband and clinging barnacle-like to the captain’s arm. “I assure you it is.”
“Did you say his name was Florian?” the captain responded eagerly. “And that his hair was red?”
“Oh! As red as a tomato. It is a color one sees most often in the theater. I don’t suppose,” she continued slyly, “it is of the same ilk as Miss Angeline LaBida’s hair. I’m sure I heard somewhere it was improbably raven.”
“Marabella, my love, let us take some air.” Mr Spurwell swooped in with a grim expression and took hold of his wife’s elbow. The captain frowned and held fast to the other. For a moment, it looked as if there might be a tug-of-war, but in the end, the rights of matrimony prevailed. “The sun is shining,” continued Mr Spurwell with false cheerfulness. “Nothing could be more wholesome for the captain than a turn about the garden.”
Mrs Spurwell’s blonde fringe quivered in indignation, but Fanny smiled and rang directly for a chair. The party sallied into the bright chill, their freezing breath rising in great clouds. Fanny insisted on wheeling the captain herself at a great pace and soon outstripped the others. Upon reaching a narrow path that wound through a little grove of evergreens, she turned off and slowed suddenly to a snail’s gait. After looking all around to make certain they were alone, she rushed round to the front of the chair and kneeled down with shining eyes.
“There isn’t much time. My father would be very displeased to hear me speaking of my brother. Let me at least assure you that he is safe and well.”
“Thank God!” The captain dropped his head briefly into his hands to hide his joy.
“Now, if I arrange for him to meet you on the field of honor, can you promise that immediately after the duel, you will take him to live with you and lavish upon him all the love denied him during his tormented and neglected youth?”
The captain snatched up her hands with a feverish look. “You have my word of honor.”
Fanny kissed the captain’s hands and drew them to her bosom. “And you will buy him a purple coat and a horse?”
“Immediately,” affirmed the captain. “And arrange for his commission in my regiment.”
“What color?” she enquired eagerly.
“What?”
“What color horse?”
The captain laughed. “Oh, I don’t know. Whatever color he likes best.”
“Black!” cried Fanny, still clinging to his hands. “And now tell me when and where the duel should best take place. I give you my word that he will appear.”
Such a question might have made you or me pause to consider, but Captain Muldoon was a veteran of such affairs and answered in due course. “I would avoid the usual fuss and fanfare attending my duels at the parade grounds. In the interest of intimacy, it had better be a less fashionable spot. Marshall’s Quay. Sunday at dawn.”
XXIX
In which the nets are snarled.
