The Mark
The Mark
The next morning shone clean and clear, a
coolness in the air which spoke of autumn.
Mary came in with my morning
tea and toast, mail and newspaper, and set the tray upon my
tea-table. “Good morning.”
“Morning, Mary,” I said.
“How was your night?”
“Ariana’s a bit fussy this
morning, but last night she slept a whole three hours!”
I must have been tired: I
slept through the screaming. “I’m happy for you.”
Mary poured my morning tea,
the bitter aroma filling the room. “My husband says the carriage
will arrive at eleven, and —”
“So late?”
She shrugged. “That’s what
he thought as well.” She let out a breath. “Is it important for you
to leave earlier?”
“I suppose not. But I’d
planned on riding with Master Rainbow, and I’m not sure he’ll want
to spend half the day here.”
“I’ll let him know,” Mary
said.
My tea tasted less bitter. I
peered into the cup: the clear brown liquid looked the same. “Is
this my morning tea, or the regular?”
Puzzlement came over Mary’s
face. “I made it myself.” She lifted the teapot’s lid and gave it a
sniff. “Smells the same to me.”
This particular tea was a
blend sent by my apothecary friend Anna Goren. The formula was
given to me by my mother for use in preventing children.
Not that I’d lain with
anyone since leaving my husband Tony; it was more of a safeguard
against sudden attack. While I had nothing against children, I had
no desire to bear one of my own. “Put a bit of it in a sachet bag;
when I visit Anna today, I’ll have her test it.”
Mary seemed confused. “Do
you think it’s gone bad? I don’t recall that ever happening
before.”
We bought our supply a year
at a time to gain the discount. But it was only September. “I don’t
know. I suppose it’s better to be safe.”
Mary placed her hand upon my
shoulder. “Oh, mum. You worry far too much.”
She seemed to hesitate then,
and I said, “What is it?”
“Oh, I think sometimes — no,
it’s nothing.”
“If you have something to
say, Mary, I won’t be angry with you.”
“It’s just — do you truly
enjoy this work of yours?”
I considered the matter. “I
do.”
“It seems to bring you such
anxiety, though. I worry for you.”
This amused me. “What brings
me anxiety are these men who shoot my windows.” I put my hand on
hers, thinking about solving puzzles, the joy on these women’s
faces when their loved ones were found. “My business is the least
of my worries.”
She seemed to relax, drawing
back. “I’m grateful, mum. For that. And I’m grateful we can be here
with you.” She let out a breath, gazing about the room. “It’s good
to at least be able to pretend we’re free, here in our little bit
of home.”
I smiled at her, feeling
moved. “As long as I’m alive, you’ll have a place here. I
promise.”
Amelia arrived soon after, in a hurry and a
rush. Although she’d said a few weeks back that she’d be here at
seven, my husband had forced her to take the taxi-carriage. And
even though there were plenty now that the trains worked, at times
she’d be delayed. “I’m so sorry, mum,” she panted. “Please forgive
me.”
“Amelia, I don’t care when
you arrive. Go about your work.”
Her cheeks reddened, and she
curtsied. “Thank you, mum.”
To my relief, my bleeding
had vanished overnight. Jonathan and I had planned to meet for
luncheon upon Market Center if I felt well enough, and after a few
days abed, I was glad to get out of the house. I finished my tea
and toast and took up the newspaper.
Amelia stood examining two
of my four charcoal walking-dresses draped upon my bed. They were
similar, with various differing details upon the collar and cuffs,
perhaps a different flounce or two. She tended to be a nervous sort
in those days, but on that day she seemed particularly
distracted.
“Are you well?”
She turned to me and
curtsied. “Entirely well, mum, thank you.”
“And your family?”
“Yes, mum, very well.” She
returned a dress to the closet.
“I’m glad.” Perhaps she and
her husband had argued.
I unfolded the Bridges
Daily. On the front page, it read:
MAYOR INSULTS DEALERS
In his remarks after a fundraising
dinner last night, Mayor Chase Freezout referred to the Dealers as
“grifters” and “fractious women.” He also said “they should return
to their husbands and fathers as the gods intended.”
The Mayor attended a benefit dinner
for the Plaza Business District on Market Center, which saw record
losses during the train outage. Several in attendance, including
this reporter, questioned the Mayor about his reason for making
such remarks, whereupon Mr. Freezout abruptly left.
An organization calling itself
“People For A Better Life” released a statement this morning
calling for the Mayor’s removal. “If blundering incompetence and
ill health were not enough, antagonizing the religious heart of our
city proves this man is unfit to stand as its leader.”
I closed the paper. The name
of this organization sounded familiar. Where had I heard it?
Mary came in with my liver
tonic and set it down before me.
I showed her the paper.
“Have you heard of this group before?”
“No, mum, but I can have my
husband ask around.”
Amelia looked up from where
she sat beside my bed, mending a hole in my dress. “What
group?”
“‘People For A Better
Life.’”
She shook her head. “Don’t
know it.” Then she snipped the thread and stood. “Drink that down;
it’s time for your bath.”
Amelia was old enough to be
my mother, and as time went on she seemed to act as though she was.
As I drank my thick, bitter tonic, I really looked at her. “Why are
you still dressed for the street?”
She curtsied. “Forgive me,
mum. It slipped my mind.”
Since when did Amelia forget
to change into her uniform? “Are you sure nothing’s the
matter?”
Amelia took up my dress and
hung it on the closet door. “Yes, mum.” She went into the bathing
room; the sound of running water came forth.
I wiped my mouth, wishing
Mary had brought in some regular tea as well, or at least a glass
of water. I went to the kitchen glass in hand, bypassing the wails
coming from the back rooms, then rinsed it in the sink and took a
drink of water. A pan of shredded potatoes sizzled upon the stove,
and the aroma of bacon arose from a covered pan.
The door to the parlor flew
open and Amelia stood there in her maid’s uniform, black with a
white apron. “Mum, your bath’s getting cold. Why are you out
here?”
Right then, Mrs. Crawford
opened the door to the back hall and curtsied. “My Lady,” she said
reprovingly, “you’re not dressed.”
I laughed at the absurdity.
I was perfectly covered, in a robe that went to the floor. But I
did have bare feet. “Very well, I’ll behave.”
I followed Amelia back to my
bedroom, shut the curtains, and got into the bath, which was hot
enough for anyone. But the mystery of the organization’s name
bothered at me as I scrubbed behind my ears and washed out my hair.
It wasn’t something I’d heard; it was something I’d read. But
where?
“I remember!” I sprang from
the tub, water flying everywhere, and grabbed a towel from its
stand.
From the other room, Amelia
said, “Remember what?” Then she came in. “Mum, you’ve made a
mess.”
“I’m sorry, Amelia.” I dried
off, then dropped the towel, using my feet to sop up the water.
Amelia let out a sigh. “Put
on your bloomers — I’ll deal with this.”
Laughing, I went into my
bedroom. On went some closed-crotch bloomers and I pinned in a
folded rag, just in case. Then my chemise and stockings, a
petticoat, and then I put my robe back on and began to search
through my old newspapers and tabloids. I had a stack of them on
the far side of my bed.
Amelia came in. “Let’s get
your dress — good gods, you’ve not combed your hair!” She grabbed
my arm. “Stop that and comb your hair before it tangles!”
“Oh, very well,” I said.
“But I need a pamphlet out of there. It’s by that group I was
talking about.”
“I’ll find it for you.”
But I could see her giving
me glances, as if making sure I combed my hair. Which irritated me.
I was four and twenty and the Lady of Spadros, not some child.
I twisted my thick curls
into a bun and put on some makeup. I’d been doing my makeup
differently, using the diagrams in the book Dame Anastasia had
given me before she died. I wanted no one who had one of my
portraits in their home to recognize me.
“Here you are, mum.” Amelia
handed me the pamphlet.
I didn’t see much about the
pamphlet that was unusual, until I looked more closely at the
illustration upon the front cover. A tiny mark lay next to the
illustrator’s signature, the Holy Symbol used by the Hart
Family.
The Harts. Why were they
writing pamphlets?
After breakfast, I went to my study with some
tea and examined the pamphlet more closely. But try as I might —
even to exposing it to heat in search of any hidden writing there —
nothing more appeared.
A knock at my door. “Come
in.”
Morton entered. “I’m off;
just wanted you to know.”
“I’m sorry about the
carriage — I hoped we might ride together.”
He shrugged. “No
bother.”
“And I do want to help with
your files.”
He grinned. “I should be
there until tea-time at the very least. Just visit when you
can.”
Morton shut the door behind
him, and I listened to the front door shut and his footsteps move
away.
The mark could simply mean
the man was from Hart quadrant, but it was more likely he was a
Family man. And the more I thought about it, the more it puzzled
me.
Etienne Hart and now-Mayor
Freezout had conspired to frame me for the zeppelin disaster. So
why now would a group associated with a Hart illustrator call for
Mayor Freezout’s removal?
Perhaps this Hart man was
simply commissioned to draw the cover, I thought. Family men did at
times take side bets, and as long as their Family got a cut,
everyone was happy.
The front door-bell rang,
and I heard Blitz walk past to answer it. Then he came back to my
door and knocked. “Joseph Kerr’s back. Should I let him in?”
Good gods, I thought. What
now? “Seat him in the parlor.”
Then I wondered whether
something had happened. It seemed odd for him to come here in the
first place, much less twice in as many days. I got up, went to my
room to find my shawl, and crossed the front hall.
Joe didn’t rise when I
entered the parlor. Given what had happened the last two times he’d
come here, this didn’t surprise me. But I was reminded of the other
times he’d sat there, the lies, the hurtful things he’d said. “Good
morning. How may I help you?”
He seemed downcast, almost
melancholy. “I’m sorry to intrude. Josie insisted I come here.”
“Is there a reason she
couldn’t come herself?”
Joe rested his arms upon his
knees. “That’s what I’m here about.”