Mission: Nutcracker

Chapter 4

4

Terminus, 17 December, 1871

The next morning, Fiona picked herself up from the floor where she’d landed in a faint, thankful that she hadn’t bruised herself. What had made her…

Oh! She slowly lifted her gaze until she focused on the middle of the room, where the nutcracker doll no longer stood. She looked around for the small intruder, but she only found dust bunnies and discarded ribbons, her familiar girlish furniture, the lace and frill her mother thought she should appreciate, and the scattering of tools and devices her father had given her.

Her father…

The memories of the previous evening rushed in, and after a brief stab of panic at the recollection of those things coming after her, filled her with the bubbling energy of anger and the cool steel of determination. They were only automatons, after all. She rose, her jaw firm—she would figure out who had kidnapped the tinkerers the night before, and she would find her father. Never mind her s*x and societal limitations—she had brains, and she would use them. She’d rescue her father and she would prove herself worthy of a place in the Tinkerer’s Guild.

A glimpse of her reflection reminded her that she still wore her costume, but without her mask, which lay forlorn on the ground beside where she’d fainted. She shook her head—she hadn’t been feeling ill, and she didn’t consider herself to be the fainting type. What had happened? And had the doll been there, or had she imagined it? She’d dreamed strange things after her brother’s death, his voice calling for her outside her window, and she’d thought she’d seen him once, but the young man had turned away before she’d gotten a longer, second look.

So she knew her mind could play tricks on her. But she could still rely on it to help her mission.

A quick wash restored her face to its usual non-sooty color and removed the lingering odors of stress and exertion from the rest of her. Her hair still smelled of smoke, but faintly. She’d have the maid help her wash it later. If they still had a maid. Ugh, she didn’t want to have to ask her mother to help her dress—she wouldn’t be able to breathe against her mother’s tight lacing.

“Fee-OH-na!” Sniff.

Fiona cringed. Her mother couldn’t have possibly known Fiona had been thinking about her. Fiona closed her eyes and counted to ten before calling back, “Yes, Mama?”

“You have a visitor.” The breathless excitement in her mother’s voice told Fiona the visitor must be a young man of means. She sighed, her jaw now fully clenched. Probably a curiosity-seeker, not someone who was actually interested in her. Word would have gotten out about the strange events at the ball, and the men would be pursued by the press…

Or would they? Who had made it out besides her and the Meriweather cousins?

Fiona’s shiver had less to do with the cold of the room and more to do with the memories she tried to push away. In spite of her best efforts, the thoughts—like her mother’s insistence on Fiona’s marrying—crowded back in. Not that there was much of a chance of that after the removal of yet more men from the population. The sheer inconsiderateness of the kidnappings warmed her again with indignation, easier to deal with than fear for her father. Hadn’t they suffered enough?

But some women had found happiness with each other. Fiona shook her head—that path was not for her. She didn’t need a partner of either s*x, just her inventions.

“Oh, Fee-oh-NAAA…”

The shrill call ended with a knock on the door, and Fiona took a deep breath. She cracked the door open to see the housemaid, Tessa, standing there. Her pink eyelids and nose showed she’d been crying—had she already been sacked? Or was she upset about Bryan’s disappearance? Fiona would have to find out later once the two of them could sit and have a good chat. But first they had to deal with Margie.

“Oh, good, you’re still here.” Fiona let her in. “Who’s got Mother in such a snit?”

“A young man, Miss.” Tessa guided Fiona to her dressing table. “I’m glad you’re cleaned up. We’ll make you look beautiful.”

“Did he say his name?”

Tessa grinned. “Your mother said I’m not to tell you.”

“Great.” Fiona sighed. Likely that meant it was someone she wouldn’t want to see, someone particularly obnoxious. And, judging from her mother’s volume, rich. But she looked up at Tessa’s determined expression. Could Fiona stand to see the servants—maid and cook—turned out? They’d have good references, of course, but with so many families struggling after the war and the new competition with former enslaved servants, would they be able to find work?

Silly me. I thought our sacrifices would end with the war. She felt the weight of something new—could it be the meaning of womanhood?—settle around her chest. Tessa gave her a quizzical look, but Fiona shook her head. She’d puzzle it out later.

After helping Fiona into one of the dresses they’d had made for afternoon teas—a lovely light green silk with pink roses embroidered around the sleeves and bodice—Tessa tied a matching ribbon around Fiona’s slender throat. Fiona kept herself from clawing at it, the chokehold of female responsibility.

Tessa stepped back. “There. You look lovely.”

“Thank you.” Fiona barely recognized the young woman in the mirror with her hair up and her skin pale in the watery morning light. The color of the dress accentuated her hair—“more gold than copper,” her mother liked to say, even though Fiona found copper the more useful of the two—and made her eyes blaze.

“Now go impress the young gentleman.” Tessa winked. “It shouldn’t be hard. He seemed quite eager to see you.”

“Right.” Fiona took a deep breath and walked out of the bedroom and into her uncertain future.

“She’ll be down in a moment.”

“Thank you.” Devon resisted the urge to stick his finger in his ear after Margie Telfair’s screech to call Fiona. No wonder the poor girl barely spoke. She probably couldn’t get a word in with her talkative mother, who still prattled on.

“She’s a smart girl, so brilliant, her father always says.” A sniff and a dab at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Do you think you’ll be able to find him? The authorities don’t seem to be much help. I sent a message to Jim Blair, but he told me to sit tight.”

Devon refrained from saying his first thought, which was that Jim Blair couldn’t find a cow patty in his own pasture. The sheriff was next to useless, often looking the other way when violence was committed toward formerly enslaved people. The attitude Devon had seen from the so-called public servant ambulance staff was a direct result of Blair’s prejudice, which infected all the government departments. And where prejudice came, laziness followed as brains became locked into one narrow way of thinking, keeping them from finding solutions to important problems.

“That’s why I’m here,” Devon told her, hoping she would get the hint that he wasn’t there to talk to Fiona about marriage. He opened his mouth to add, “This isn’t a courting call,” but then Fiona emerged from the hallway at the top of the stairs, and he had to struggle not to let his jaw drop.

She wore a light green gown that was too flimsy for the chilly weather, but which brought out the green in her eyes and almost turned them emerald. Her dark copper hair shone burnished in the sunbeams she passed through. How could a woman’s face have such delicacy while still showing strength and determination? What had been going through her mind that morning? Had she been crying? If so, her face didn’t show it. She nodded to him when she reached the bottom of the staircase and held out a hand, which he bowed over.

“Miss Telfair,” he said. “’Tis a pleasure to see you this fine morning.”

She gave him a small smile. Had she lost the ability to speak to him again? Apparently so.

“Fiona, greet the gentleman.” Mrs. Telfair snapped. She clenched her fists, and Fiona flinched. Had Fiona ever been hit by her mother? He couldn’t imagine her father doing so, and he had to hold back from putting himself between Fiona and Margie.

Fiona opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. Mrs. Telfair, apparently not one to be dissuaded by any awkwardness, gestured toward the parlor.

“Go have some tea. That will loosen your tongue.” She turned to Devon and wrung her hands. “The poor girl has been unable to speak since her father was taken. You’re her only hope for a normal life.”

Was that a devious glint in her eyes? Devon knew that Margie lied—should he be alone with Fiona? He wouldn’t put it past her mother to lay a marriage trap. She seemed ruthless enough to sacrifice her daughter’s reputation to do so.

Devon almost sighed. His enemies piled up in all areas, but at least he didn’t live with one of them.

“Tessa will chaperon you,” the woman added, perhaps sensing Devon’s hesitation.

“Thank you. Shall we?” He held his arm out to Fiona, who hesitated before taking it. Right, the last time he’d done that had been before their mad dash from the ballroom the night before. But he intended to talk to her about the incident—indeed, that was the purpose for his visit—so while he wanted to be considerate of her feelings, he couldn’t encourage her to avoid the topic.

He did turn to her mother and ask, purely for politeness’ sake, “Would you care to join us?”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Telfair dabbed at her eyes again. “I’m too distraught, and I’d only be a distraction.”

“I understand,” Devon said. With Fiona still on his arm, he followed the maid into the parlor. The first thing he noticed was the portrait of a young man hanging over the fireplace mantle. The soldier wore a Union uniform—good—and resembled Fiona in the shape of his face and coloring. However, he looked sternly down upon the two of them. Devon guessed this was Fiona’s brother, who had been killed. There had been some sort of rumor about the boy’s death, although Devon couldn’t remember what, that cast the young man in a poor light. And now tragedy and scandal had visited the household again.

Fiona removed her hand from his arm, leaving a cold spot, and gestured for him to take a seat in one of the maroon-damask upholstered wingback chairs that sat before the fire, which had been built to the barest comfortable level. A small pile of sticks barely thicker than Devon’s thumb sat in the metal basket beside it. The intricacy of the basket’s ironwork almost distracted him from the pitiful condition and size of the wood.

“Shall I build up the fire?” he asked. “You must be chilly.”

Her lips thinned, and she shook her head. She motioned again for him to sit, and he did. She didn’t seem to be cold, so he didn’t press the matter. Perhaps she had developed a thick skin during her tinkering work.

The maid poured the tea, and Fiona lifted her cup to her face. She took a long sniff before drinking it, her eyes closing in pleasure. Devon sipped his own tea, which was on the weak side. The maid retreated to the far side of the room, where she sat in a sunbeam and took out some mending. None of the lamps had been lit, so Devon speculated the maid’s position had a more practical reason than giving the two of them space to talk. Indeed, the whole house spoke of financial peril, now that he noticed it. What had happened to put the family in such a position? He’d never gotten a hint from Bryan, although the man could easily be swayed by stronger personalities in arguments that didn’t involve mechanical or other topics. Bryan Telfair knew his stuff when it came to tinkering, but he lacked the ability to manage people.

But Devon didn’t.

“Tes-SA!”

All three occupants of the room cringed.

“I need my smelling salts.” Margie’s voice carried even when it didn’t sound like she was nearby.

“Excuse me, Miss,” Tessa said. “I’ll be back shortly.” And with a look that told Devon she would personally relieve him of his balls if he so much as thought about deflowering her young mistress, she left the two of them alone.