Mission: Nutcracker

Chapter 13

13

Terminus, 19 December 1871

The crust she’d found during her mouse dream seemed to hold Fiona, and she watched as her mother ate the last of their bread with the tail end of the preserves in the jar.

“Are you sure you’re not hungry?” Margie asked for the tenth time. “You don’t need to be any thinner. You’ll never catch a husband if you’re too skinny.”

Fiona shook her head. She couldn’t tell her mother she’d dreamed her hunger away, so she simply said, “I’m still upset over Sheriff Blair’s visit. Imagine thinking that I could have killed someone.” She shuddered visibly, which didn’t take too much effort, as the memory of what had happened still disturbed her. “Excuse me, I feel as though I could faint at the thought.”

“Yes, go lie down if you need to. But don’t forget to practice your violin. A young lady must keep up her skills, and I let you off yesterday since you’d had such a rough day.”

Of course her father’s place sat empty, glaringly so.

“Have you heard anything from the police?” Fiona asked. “Any news?”

“No, but I’m sure they’re working very hard on it.” Margie’s eyes grew hard. “Now go either lie down or play the violin. I won’t tolerate any more impertinence from you.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Fiona went up to her room and found her violin. The family hadn’t been able to afford a piano, but her father had brought the instrument over from Ireland and taught her to play, mostly reels, folk songs, and other things proper young ladies shouldn’t know. Fiona caressed the wood. She loved classical music, and she dreamed of playing the scandalous melodies of contemporary composers like Brahms and Berlioz, but she would always find comfort in her father’s home’s songs. What would Ireland, where red hair would be the norm rather than a novelty, be like? She’d heard there were pockets of Irish people in Georgia in the mountains north of the city, but her mother would never allow her to go visit them. Yet another area where Fiona’s curiosity outstripped her ability to go explore it. Damn womanhood.

Thinking the curse word made her feel better, and Fiona went into a melody she’d never heard before, something simultaneously plaintive and angry, but with the technical complication of an elegant clockwork.

“Fee-OH-na!” Sniff. “Stick with the melodies you’re supposed to play.”

Of course her mother wouldn’t let her have that, either. She’d once upon a time encouraged Fiona in her composition, but after Connor had died…

Fiona remembered when the sergeant had brought the news. She’d been in her room practicing, as she was now, but playing her own variations on a theme by Mozart. There had been a knock, and somehow Fiona knew that it was bad news. Something about the sound had echoed through her soul, three raps that brought her farther away from the life she’d known, the comfortable familiarity of her brother being gone but still somewhere, his homecoming assured.

She’d put her violin down and listened with her entire body, praying it wasn’t what she thought. But when she’d heard her mother’s wail, she knew what it was, that life had ceased to be the same and that no one she loved was safe. She’d placed her violin and bow in the case as though by putting them in their proper place she could put her entire life back where it should be. She’d then opened the door and crept down the stairs.

The young man who had brought the news had stood in the parlor and twisted his hat in his hands. He hadn’t worn a uniform, but a brown suit that looked like it had belonged to an older and slightly larger brother. None of the Union soldiers who braved the journey South to bring families the news dared to wear their uniforms, but something about how they carried themselves allowed Fiona to spot them. She simultaneously hated to see him but was also relieved that there wouldn’t be any ambiguity like there could possibly be with a letter or telegram, both of which could have been intercepted. As far as their neighbors knew, Connor had been at University and had been unreachable to the Southern States’ increasingly insistent attempts to conscript him into the Confederate army.

Of course later, they’d found out that Connor hadn’t been killed in battle, but rather had ended his life at the hands of a jealous husband. Then the leash had tightened on Fiona to a stifling degree, and it was only through her father’s intercession that she’d been allowed to leave the house at all. And now she didn’t even have that.

“Where are you, Papa?” she whispered beneath the music, a minuet by Strauss that was on her mother’s approved list. Fiona hated Strauss, but she could admit to herself that part of the reason was that she’d never been asked to waltz, not even by the boys at the Tinkerer’s Guild, what few of them were left. She wished she didn’t care, but she did. She’d learned her lessons too well—her brother, the favorite child, had failed to live an honorable life. Fiona, the less favored one, had no chance at redemption except to catch a husband. And none of them had wanted her, which hadn’t surprised her mother at all. Too skinny, too tall, too smart… her toos went on and on.

When Fiona put the bow down, she had to wipe tears off the instrument. Too weepy. She wished Connor was still alive. He’d be home by now and taking the attention and pressure off her. But he’d sacrificed her welfare for his selfishness, and his footsteps wouldn’t sound through the house again. And it was up to Fiona to get her father back.

She needed to talk to Devon, to tell him about the previous day’s events. And see if he knew where there may still be green grass growing. All she’d seen was brown and dry and unhappy with the winter.

She summoned Tessa and penned a quick note to Devon to please come call on her. Then she sent Tessa off to give the note with a penny to a boy to take it for her. While she waited for a reply, she freshened up and was surprised when Tessa returned quicker than anticipated.

“A different boy brought a message for you, Miss. Devon Meriweather has invited you to his estate to have lunch with him and his sister.” Tessa dropped her voice. “Your mother is in a right tizzy about it, particularly since she wasn’t invited. She said I’m to go with you to chaperon.”

“Very well.” Fiona straightened. The part about the sister was for propriety’s sake, she was sure. Devon had made his intentions quite clear—their alliance was to be professional to secure the tinkerers’ return, nothing more. But she couldn’t help a thrill of excitement at the thought of an intimate lunch with him and his sister.

After breakfast in the kitchen with the servants, Henry made his way out of the house and back to the former slave quarters, which the Meriweathers had gutted and refurbished as a workshop and guest quarters for visiting artisans. Crenshaw, who had greeted Henry upon his arrival, had said that Devon wanted someplace close by for special projects, and that the basement laboratory wouldn’t be big enough for the ideas he had. After meeting Devon, Henry wondered if the young man had any fixed ideas or acted on hope and instinct. Henry hoped for the former.

His team’s train had been scheduled to arrive at ten past nine, and indeed, he found them unloading when he walked up to them. Two n*****s stood at the ready, but they didn’t do anything.

“They said they’d handle it, Sir,” one of them told Henry.

“Thank you,” Henry replied, “but we won’t require any assistance.”

Indeed, Patrick O’Connell and Edward Bailey lifted and moved crates from the first wagon. Likely they wanted to handle the materials for their workshop themselves. Johann Bledsoe and Chadwick Radcliffe went back and forth with luggage, and Henry heard Iris Bailey inside giving instructions with the occasional comment from Claire Radcliffe. Chadwick and Claire would move on to their clinic later.

Devon, noticeably limping, huffed down the drive, and Henry waved to him.

“Who have we here?” Devon asked when he arrived at Henry’s side. Henry called the team.

“Mister Devon Meriweather, please allow me to introduce my associates. First, renowned aetherist Edward Bailey.” Henry gestured to the lanky scientist, whose dark blue eyes looked Devon over with curiosity.

“It’s an honor,” Devon said and shook Edward’s hand. “My cousin Pierce will be excited to meet you. He’s grown very interested in aetherics lately.”

Henry filed that away for future reference. He gestured to the petite blonde woman beside Edward. “And this is Mrs. Iris Bailey, archaeologist.”

Devon nodded to her and said, “I’m charmed to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

Henry continued down the line. “The tall redheaded fellow is Patrick O’Connell, tinkerer extraordinaire.”

“Welcome. Pierce will be excited to see you as well. Is that Claire McPhee?” Devon asked. “The two inventors of La Reine here? This is truly an honor.”

“Yes,” Henry said as Claire blushed as redheads do when suddenly the focus of attention. “And the gentleman beside her is her husband.”

“I’m Claire Radcliffe now,” she said. “This is Chadwick. We’re physicians.” She emphasized the last word. Henry hoped Devon would take the hint—she didn’t want to be associated with war, but with healing.

“And finally, the blond fellow is musician Johann Bledsoe.”

“Please to meet you all.” Devon shook each man’s hand and nodded to the women. “I’m glad you’re here, especially you Maestro Bledsoe, in light of what I’ve decided this morning. We’ll be holding a holiday ball on Saturday, and it would greatly honor me if you were to play for us.”

Henry wanted to ask if that was wise considering what had just happened at the Tinkerer’s Ball, but he kept his mouth shut. His directive had been to investigate, not influence. And perhaps it would flush out some of the villains, although this group of attendees would be different. And it would be a good chance to test out his team.

“Please give me the guest list once you have it,” Henry said. “And the layout, and we’ll work on a security plan.”

“With interesting devices, I hope,” Devon said. Henry caught more than boyish enthusiasm in his tone.

“We’ll see,” Henry told him. “Team, as you were.”

They resumed unloading, and Henry caught Patrick’s grumble, “Feel like a fecking dog and pony show.” He hoped Devon hadn’t heard the Irishman’s complaint, but when he turned to Devon, he found the young man had an amused expression.

“Interesting group of professions for a security team,” Devon said. “But I won’t ask.”

“It’s probably best you don’t. I’m sure you came across odder during your foreign service.”

“Yes.” But he didn’t take Henry’s implied invitation to elaborate. “Please let me know if I can give you any more assistance.”

“Thank you.”

Devon limped back up the drive, and Henry almost offered the assistance of the Doctors Radcliffe but refrained. Investigate, not influence, he reminded himself. But how long would he be able to hold that line?

Devon thought he’d seen Layla Bollingon slipping out the servants’ entrance. He checked his watch—they’d finished their conversation an hour ago. What was she doing here still? He decided he needed to ask the servants about it. He didn’t need someone lurking about, especially not a member of the press. If the person who’d tackled him in the workshop the previous day hadn’t been of significantly larger build, he’d suspect Bollington of being the assailant. But she was too tiny. So was she snooping around for stories? He shook his head. There were too many things to think about these days, and he needed to focus on his lunch with Fiona.

Who had trouble talking to him. He shook his head again. He didn’t think himself to be so intimidating, but perhaps for someone like Fiona, of modest means, the idea of a rich man paralyzed her tongue. He wished he’d better thought through inviting her to his house. If she’d been flustered in her own home, how much more would she be so here, surrounded by luxury? But he needed to get her away from her mother so they could talk frankly.

He encountered Therese coming out of her suite. Her cheeks looked flushed, and her lips slightly swollen. He’d become so attuned to every nuance of her appearance that each little change stood out like a beacon.

“Are you well, dear sister?” he asked.

“Oh!” She put a hand to her lips, and the color in her cheeks deepened. “Yes, quite well, thank you. Do I not look so?”

“You look feverish,” he said and put a hand on her forehead.

She batted it away. “I’m perfectly fine. What can I do for you, dear brother?”

Devon studied her. He didn’t know if he believed her, but her eyes were bright, perhaps even sparkling, and her voice strong. “I have invited a young lady for lunch. No, not like that.” He added when she put both hands to her mouth, which had formed a surprised and delighted o. “She’s a professional contact. We’re working together on finding the tinkerers, the ones who were kidnapped from the ball.”

“Right. The ball. I was thinking I’d like to have another look at that odd device you found,” she said. “There was something familiar about it, but I can’t tease what from my addled brain.”

“Your brain is far from addled,” Devon said. “You’re smarter than me and Pierce put together. As for the clockwork, it’s gone missing.” He didn’t want to alarm her by telling her about the attack.

“Did it crawl off?” she asked.

“Not exactly. I’ll have to tell you later.” He pulled her aside into one of the unused drawing rooms, then regretted it when he saw the dust on the surfaces. What would such a mess do to her delicate lungs? He spoke quickly. “The young woman has a strange reaction to me. She seems unable to speak to me when we’re together. I’m hoping that having you there will help her be at ease. Please?”

“Are you bringing me into the investigation?” Therese asked.

“Yes, but only as an adviser. I can’t risk you being hurt.”

She pondered for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll see what I can do to help you with your young lady. Whatever did you do to her to make her not want to speak in front of you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he confessed. “The first time I met her, I thought I was making charming conversation, but when I thought through it later, I’m afraid I came off as a cad.” He thought back but still couldn’t understand why she’d initially reacted to him so coolly or why she still couldn’t speak to him. “Go and tell her I’ve been caught up with something important and warm her up.”

She crossed her arms and gave him a stern look.

“Right. Please?”

“That’s better.” She swept out of the room. Devon glanced at his pocket watch. How long would it be permissible to keep Therese and Fiona waiting? He instructed the kitchen to go ahead and start serving lunch, which would hopefully put them further at ease. He guessed from the state of the tea at the Telfair house that food wasn’t plentiful. He’d be damned if Fiona went hungry while under his protection. A hungry thinker was a poor thinker, and he needed her mind sharp.

Not that he would be able to do anything for her once she left. He would have to speak with his steward to see what they could work out.

Devon paced the kitchen for ten minutes, then went into the dining room.