Mission: Nutcracker

Chapter 12

12

Terminus, 19 December 1871

Devon sat at his desk after breakfast and pondered his legacy. Dinner the night before and breakfast had been the same as always with the cousins bickering as only old friends could, and Pierce’s dark mood seemed to have lifted. Devon had asked him to accompany him to the office after breakfast, but Pierce said he had an errand to run and would come see him later. Devon had wanted to make sure Pierce was in a better frame of mind before he told him that the little clockwork had been stolen.

Meanwhile, Devon had alerted the servants that there had been an intruder in the house. He asked about the odd door in the basement, but either they didn’t know anything about it or didn’t want to discuss it. Finally, one of the valets who had been with the house when they’d acquired it had said he remembered something about a secret passage. Then, when pressed, he’d admitted that he and his wife had helped people through it as part of the Underground Railroad, the former owners of the plantation having been sympathetic to the plight of the slaves. Once the war was over and movement was allowed between the Southern and Northern states again, the previous owners had sold the house and moved away from the bad memories, including that of their own son’s death. Devon couldn’t blame them. He still couldn’t go to the airfield where his parents had been killed in a fiery crash.

And there went his thoughts in directions he didn’t need for them to go. He checked the time—9:45. Layla Bollington would be there at ten, and at eleven he’d be meeting with Pierce and would introduce him to Henry Davidson.

Crenshaw showed Layla in right on time and brought Devon some coffee.

“Thank you.” He looked at Crenshaw inquisitively, and the older man shook his head. Good. Devon didn’t want the temptation of the laudanum although the damp weather made his ankle ache. Why wouldn’t the damn thing heal? Well, scuffling with a stranger in the basement had likely not helped.

Crenshaw offered Layla Bollington some coffee, but she declined. Finally, when she was alone with Devon—a privilege afforded to female journalists, but not other women—she took out her pad and smiled. Devon knew that look. Women wore it when they thought they had him at a disadvantage.

“Tell me what you remember about the party.”

“It’s pretty much as you described it in the article in yesterday’s paper,” he said. “Nicely done, by the way. The servants?”

She didn’t look down demurely as other women would have at the compliment. “Thank you. And yes, the poor and service class are often the most overlooked but best witnesses. Some of them said you tried to help them.”

Now Devon’s cheeks heated, although he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps an angry memory at the firemen’s initial refusal to help them. “Yes. It seemed they were being overlooked, as you said. I’m sure they saw much more than we.” In fact, he wanted to know what.

“Right, but I want your impressions. What I wrote was an aggregate, not a single eyewitness account.” She shrugged. “I feel it’s fair to say this to you since you have a sympathetic ear and heart to them. People are interested in what the rich and powerful have to say, not the poor and non-influential.”

Devon nodded and identified the source of his earlier blush—he was one of those readers who looked for the name, the headline trumpeting the opinion of someone who others listened to because they had money. And he was comfortable, but he didn’t think he could play in their league.

Or—remembering Jim Blair’s proposition—could he? A wife of some influence would help.

And here he was pondering his ambitions again. Had it been only himself he was responsible for, it wouldn’t matter so much, but he needed to make sure Pierce and Therese were taken care of. And so far Therese hadn’t shown the slightest inclination toward marriage.

“So, Mister Meriweather…” Bollington called him back to the moment. “Tell me about the party. When did you arrive?”

“At around seven o’clock. Pierce, my cousin, and I were two of the first to get there. We spoke to the Guild officers and then made the rounds, looking at the decorations and mingling.” During that time he’d noticed Fiona and her father walk in, she dressed charmingly as a mouse and he as a cat.

“Which costumes did you notice?” she prompted. “I imagine the tinkerers came up with some creative ones. And were you wearing one?”

“No, sadly. Pierce is a member of the Guild and had secured an invitation for me, but I wasn’t sure if I was going to go. My ankle has been bothering me since I sprained it in France.”

She nodded. “That sounds like a story for a different time. I hope it doesn’t pain you too much.”

He shrugged, and the offending joint gave a throb. “It depends on the day and the weather, I suppose. I haven’t found a doctor I trust to look at it here. The one in France said to keep it wrapped and to elevate it, but I re-injured it by walking on the rolling boat deck on our journey back to the States.” The weather hadn’t been great at sea, but he couldn’t stay cooped up in the cabin. “But yes, that’s a story for another day, and not a terribly interesting one.”

“Costumes?” Bollington prompted. She’d arched one eyebrow.

“There were some elements. A few people dressed as famous inventors. A dueling Tesla and Edison—those were my favorites.” His favorite had actually been Fiona-mouse, but he didn’t want to say so. She’d drawn enough attention from Jim Blair that he didn’t want to bring her into the spotlight again. But she’d looked so adorable and sweet he had to approach her.

Bollington’s lips lifted in a small smile. “Did they duel?”

“No, they behaved.”

Her expression turned serious. “And then the trouble started. What did you see and do? What did you first notice?”

Devon took a moment to collect his thoughts, and he shivered like the heat had left his body through the conduit of his spine. “I heard a roaring sound, and the lamps on the walls rotated, spewing flames sideways.”

“That’s quite a trick.”

“I believe they’d been constructed to be either vertical single flame or horizontal dual-flame lamps, but they shouldn’t have been able to spew fire like that. Did any of the servants say anything?”

“Only that some of the guild members had been talking about special effects they wanted to rig up for the party, but nothing like that. It sounds like they got too enthusiastic with their flames.”

“Yes, the lamps caught curtains and picture frames on fire. People panicked, rushing toward the exit, but they were blocked.” He swallowed, still questioning his memory. “By giant nutcracker dolls. But they moved like no automatons I’ve ever seen. Typically machines like that are slow, clunky almost. Even the more advanced ones lack a smoothness in their movements that humans have. These were too real to be machines.”

“So you think they were humans in costume?”

“Possibly. And they were fast. They rounded up partygoers like a well-trained military unit. Thankfully one of the guests knew of a secret entrance behind the punch table that the servants used to refill refreshments, and some of us escaped that way. I also alerted the kitchen about what was going on.” He looked at Bollington, who furiously scribbled notes. “Were any of the servants taken?”

“Yes. A man named Hollowell, who worked for Thaddeus Devine, and two upstairs maids.” She pressed her lips together in a line.

“Right, Pierce and I talked to their father and husband.” Devon couldn’t believe someone would be so cruel as to take a child. Well, he could, but he didn’t want to. He’d learned on his travels that there was no end to human cruelty, but having it so close to his experience always made him feel like he stood just on the other side of an inferno of ice waiting to swallow all those who looked on it in despair.

“Thankfully the fire brigade doused the flames in the ballroom quickly,” Layla said, “Sparing the servants who were hiding in other parts of the house. Tinkerers aren’t stupid—they built their building to not burn quickly in case experiments went awry.”

Devon could appreciate the wisdom in that. “So there were no deaths?”

“No, assuming that all those taken are still alive.”

That was a big assumption. Would the kidnappers pick off the least important and influential to make the others work harder? “Do you have a list of those who were kidnapped?” Devon asked.

“As you can imagine, Jim Blair has not been terribly helpful with my investigation.” Bollington flipped her notebook closed. “I have a preliminary list based on some interviews I’ve done. If you could add to it, I’d be much obliged.”

“I’ll try, but as I said, I’m not a member. I can talk to someone who is, though.”

“And who wasn’t taken? Some escaped, but I haven’t managed to track them all down.”

“There was a group on the lawn after the party, some who had escaped the ballroom and some who had arrived late and who hadn’t gone in yet when all the trouble started.”

“Do you have names?”

Devon hesitated, again not wishing to give Fiona up. He would leave that up to her. “I’ll speak with my contact and let you know if they’ll talk to you.”

“Fair enough. I can understand how some people may not want to have their name in the press. And at the same time how others crave it.”

Devon arched his eyebrow now. Was she insulting him? Or teasing him?

Her grin lit her face. “Obviously not you. I asked you for this interview.”

“Right.” He felt foolish, but something about the woman threw him off. He hadn’t heard of her pursuing marriage, but then, many professional women—those who had stepped in when the supply of men went to the front and dwindled—didn’t. They liked their freedom.

“Thank you for your time, Mister Meriwether. You can reach me through…” She paused and blinked, then recovered. “I’ll leave you a card. You can reach me at the paper, but I’ll check in with you if I haven’t heard from you in the next few days.”

“I’ll talk to my contact today.” In fact, he realized he hadn’t yet heard from Fiona. He’d thought she was going to talk to her friends who’d arrived late and who had taken her home, and they had agreed to exchange information.

“Perfect. I look forward to hearing from you.”

They both stood, and Devon bowed as she curtsied. As if he’d been listening—and indeed, he might have been—Crenshaw opened the door for her and showed her out.

His and Layla Bollington’s conversation prompted Devon to ponder which of his servants he’d overlooked and who may have seen or heard something interesting. Again, what trouble had he overlooked in his household?

After his interview with Layla Bollington, Devon turned his attention to the documents on his desk. Contracts, proposals, agreements… The letters of the business swam before his eyes, and a headache threatened to bloom behind his right temple. He recalled a conversation he’d had with his father soon before his parents had taken their last airship flight, the one that had ended in flames and disaster. It seemed that fire and loss followed him everywhere, although it had been a miracle that no one had died at Tinkerer Hall.

“Devon, son, you need to ponder your legacy.” Arnold Meriweather had stood behind this desk, and Devon in front of it. Pierce had just left for university to study engineering, and Devon had stayed behind to learn the business. He’d missed his cousin, who had been like a brother to him since Pierce’s parents had been killed by a yellow fever epidemic when the two of them were twelve.

“My legacy?” Devon had gestured around the office, which was lined with books and pictures of various ships and trains, all part of Meriweather Shipping Enterprises.

“Yes, your legacy goes beyond all this. These are objects and money. When I die, they’ll pass to you if you want them. But I sometimes wonder if I’ve made a damn bit of difference in the world.” Arnold had been in a strangely pensive state of mind. With the war looming on the horizon, they’d all been pondering their fates and the future. “If we go to war, and that’s looking more and more like when we go to war, our family will be on the wrong side of the battle for this part of the country. You know this.”

“Yes.” Devon had hated the idea of leaving their townhouse in Terminus, which he’d grown up in. His parents had never tried to buy a bigger estate, his father being more interested in reinvesting in the business. Not that they’d wanted for anything, but they’d all come up with a disdain for the material. Well, besides Pierce. His father had been a notorious spendthrift, which was why the family had been in Florida when the fever had hit. Tamany Meriweather’s latest aim to make money had been land speculation, and they’d been touring the area.

Pierce had always liked the nicest clothing and had bought the newest steamcart. His father had left him a little money, and Arnold and Pierce had had some arguments about how much of it would be left for Pierce’s education. Apparently enough if he was going to be educated at Harvard.

Meanwhile, Devon had been stuck in Terminus, although it seemed more and more likely he would be shipped away soon, and his father was babbling on about legacy and making a difference. What sort of difference could one make when there was a war about to start and everything they’d worked for could be confiscated or destroyed?

“So I want you to join the foreign service,” Arnold had told him. “I’ve already secured you a spot to go to France.”

“But I don’t want to go to France. I want to stay here. With you. And Mother and Therese.”

“Your mother and Therese will be going with you.” Arnold had pulled a drawer open and extracted an envelope. “Here. Look through these.”

Devon had looked at the stack of papers. One had been a letter of acceptance for him to attend Foreign Service Academy in New York before being stationed in Paris. The other had been a deed to a townhouse in a small town in the French countryside. There had been others, but Devon had shaken his head.

“I can’t go. I can’t abandon my country.”

“You’ll be doing what you can for it by spreading the word that the North is on the right side of the war and the South is in the wrong. Think of the enslaved peoples. This is really a fight over what happens to them.”

Devon had nodded. “Is that my legacy, then? To become a glorified public relations person while my friends die?”

“No, your legacy is to be your choice after it’s all over. Come now, you know the Northern States have superior weapons and the moral right. This conflict shouldn’t last more than a year, two at most. But you can’t define your legacy if you’re not alive to do so.”

Devon thought back to his father’s words, now more than a decade later. He’d done as his father had asked, and had it not been for Therese, he might have backed out and decided to enlist as a soldier after all. And many of his friends had died or come back from the conflict badly injured. The fact that he’d been away and not actively fighting against the Southern States had given him some entree back into Southern society, even if they considered him cowardly. Every time he heard someone talk about the glory days before the war, he wanted to retch.

But what was his legacy to be? At first, when he’d rejoined Pierce at this monstrosity of a house, he thought he’d be buried in paperwork—a legacy of papercuts. His eyes stung from studying the documents and organizing them for hours each day. Admittedly the piles had shrunk, but they seemed to grow again overnight when no one was looking.

He rubbed his eyes. At least Pierce seemed to have done well with the family coffers during Devon’s absence, even with the war raging around Terminus and trade disrupted through it.

Pierce knocked on the door and entered without waiting for Devon to invite him in. Devon caught the sharp response to his cousin’s invasion before it could leave his mouth. Pierce had been in enough of a mood that there was no point in making it worse. Besides, Devon needed to give him the bad news.

“Have you looked at the clockwork we found lately?” Devon asked.

“No.” Pierce frowned. “Damn thing seems to have reassembled itself and crawled off.”

“Or someone took it.”

Pierce’s frown deepened. “Took it? How? No one can get into the basement laboratory besides us.”

Devon told him about the intruder from the day before, and Pierce cursed. Devon found himself to be relieved at Pierce’s surprise.

“Did you know there’s a door to a secret passage down there?” Devon finished.

“Yes, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how to get it open. But this person did?”

Devon nodded.

Pierce rubbed his eyes. “I’ll ask the servants again, but the ones who came with the house didn’t know anything about it.” He shot a sideways glance at Devon. “They may tell you, though. They like you better.”

Devon frowned. “That’s ridiculous. Of course they like you.”

“No, I’m not Mister Popular like you are. I don’t have your charm, your fortune, your…” He waved his hands. “‘Je ne sais quoi.’ I also don’t have proud papas who swore they wouldn’t have anything to do with traitor families who fled to the wrong side during the war throwing their daughters at me.”

Now Devon’s eyebrows reversed direction in surprise. “How did you hear about that?”

Pierce smiled, but like he knew a secret. “I may not know about where to find the key for the secret passage in the basement, but I do know how sound carries in the house. Tell me, are you at all interested in Miss Blair?”

Devon leaned back. “No. You want a shot at her?”

Pierce shook his head, his nose wrinkled. “Can you imagine having to sit across from him on Sundays and holidays? No, no thank you. I’ll take my chances with your sister. At least I know the company will be good.”

Devon released the tension that had gathered in his belly at Pierce’s attempt at humor. If he was joking, he was in a better mood. Sometimes Devon felt like he didn’t know his cousin anymore. He’d become mercurial at times, and at others, maintained the same humor as he had before. Or perhaps Devon hadn’t ever known him.

“Again, the decision is hers.” But would Therese ever say yes or no to Pierce? Wouldn’t it be fairer to cut him loose? He made a mental note to talk to Therese about it soon so Pierce could set his romantic sights on someone else. Devon hated to see his cousin unhappy, and in truth, having the affair settled either way would release some of the tension in the household.

“You know what you need to do?” Pierce asked.

“What?” Devon grinned. “Let me have your advice, o expert on women and society.”

“Remember, dear cousin, I’ve been here longer than you since the war ended. These people are hungry for things to be as they were before. It’s the holiday season, and you know what would make things better? A ball.”

“A ball.” Devon’s stomach sank like a stone through water, landing with a thud somewhere around his pelvis. “Where? Here?”

“Yes, you know they’ve been dying with curiosity to see the house since we’ve moved in.” Pierce looked around, his nose wrinkled. “Not that we’ve done much to it other than bring in our furniture. But yes, a ball.”

Devon nodded, the plans spinning in his mind and weaving themselves into a coherent whole. “Mamas could bring their eligible daughters, and proud papas could come and discuss business in drawing rooms. I could make sure to have eyes and ears everywhere.”

“Now you’re getting it.” Pierce clapped him on the back. “The servants like you, as I said. They’ll be happy to report whatever they happen to overhear. Stupid former Confederates still haven’t learned that they have eyes and ears…and mouths that pass along information.”

“Right.” Devon recognized he shouldn’t want to spy on his guests, but if it would give him an edge in knowing what deals to pursue and who was open to doing business with him—and which marriage would be more advantageous—it could be worth it.

“Brilliant. I’ll work on a list, and I’ll bring it to you for approval and additions. I’ve already got some ideas.”

“Thank you.” Again, Devon thanked whichever divine being had arranged for his cousin to have the inventive head and the connections in the community, and that Pierce was on his side. And whatever Pierce thought, he wasn’t at all unpopular among the gentlemen of the society. Together they made a good team.

“Plus it will help to move the community past the disaster of the Tinkerer’s Ball.” Pierce shuddered. “The sight of those automatons…”

“Do you think they were truly machines?” Devon asked. “They moved so smoothly.”

Pierce considered the question for a moment. “You’re right, I should have thought of that. No, they seemed to be more human than machine. So unless someone has gotten very clever, I don’t think they were automatons. But that clockwork still indicates we’re dealing with a dashedly clever inventor.”

“That we are. So we should still proceed with caution. Do you know of anyone with that sort of talent? Whether in the Guild or not.”

Again, Pierce paused, his brows drawn together in thought. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. There are a few possibilities, but they were in attendance. Not that that means anything.”

“Right.” Devon stopped speaking and moving, hoping Pierce would get the hint and leave him to his papers.

Finally, Pierce did.

“All right, I’ll put that list together for you and then ponder clever tinkerers. Anything else?”

“No, but thank you.”

With a nod, Pierce left. Devon turned back to his papers, grinning at the idea of a ball. Not that he could marry her, but he imagined Fiona Telfair smiling when she got the invitation. Or should he invite her? Blair had warned him away from the family, after all. But her father had been taken, and he did need her cooperation in his own investigation into the kidnappings.

Speaking of whom, he needed to give her an update. He dashed off a quick note and asked Crenshaw to send a boy to the Telfair townhouse to ask Fiona to come ‘round to lunch with him and Therese. He had no doubt his sister and Fiona would get on well, as similar as they were in temperament and interest. He ignored the nagging voice in his head that said his interests aligned quite well with Fiona’s, too, and he would be particularly interested in exploring their connection further.

“Wife with money and connections, wife with money and connections,” he murmured to himself, but the words had begun to sound hollow. Then he heard Therese’s cough—she seemed to have worsened again with the return of the cool weather—and his resolve strengthened.

When Crenshaw came to get the note, he informed Devon that Henry Davidson’s team had arrived.