The Dark Days Pact

  Helen wrapped her arms around her body, trying to contain a spidery crawl of doubt along her spine. ‘Your sister does not think I am ready to go out into the world as a young man.’

  His mouth twisted in mute apology. ‘Margaret is too hard upon you; it is her own pique talking. You may not be quite ready yet, but with some hard work you soon will be.’

  ‘I was not even asked,’ Helen said.

  ‘Asked?’

  ‘Whether or not I wanted to masquerade as a man. Or even if I thought I could. It was just expected that I would do so.’

  ‘That is Lord Carlston’s way,’ Mr Hammond said. ‘I doubt that it even enters his mind that any of us would refuse to do whatever it takes to fulfil our duty. We have, after all, taken our own oaths.’ He cocked his head. ‘Does it upset you to masquerade as a man? I am sure it will be only on occasion. It will be just as valuable for you to police the Deceivers as a woman; probably more so since you are the only Reclaimer who can move in female society.’

  Helen waved away the question. ‘No, I am more than willing to take on the male guise. It is just …’

  ‘You would have preferred to have had the decision of it.’ He shrugged, not from indifference but in sympathy. ‘Like Stokes, we are all soldiers now, and Lord Carlston is our general, leading us against an enemy that outnumbers us five hundred to one. He believes you are a sign that the Grand Deceiver is amongst us — the creature’s opposite, if you will — and he is trying to make you a general too, before it strikes.’

  ‘A general? I am barely even a Reclaimer. How am I to lead men?’

  ‘You doubt yourself?’

  ‘Of course I do. Men will not follow a woman.’

  ‘They followed Queen Elizabeth,’ Mr Hammond said.

  True, although the Virgin Queen had forgone marriage and called herself a Prince. Perhaps pretending to be a man was the only way for a woman to lead.

  ‘If Lord Carlston thinks you can do it, trust him,’ Mr Hammond advised. He gestured to the centre of the room with a small bow. ‘Come, let us work on your gait.’

  Shaking off her unease, Helen turned her mind to the task. Her breeches had not yet been delivered; somehow she would have to raise her skirts to allow free movement. She lifted the scalloped hem of her pale green gown a few inches and felt heat suffuse her face. Less than a month ago she would never have stood unchaperoned in a room with a man, let alone shown her legs to him.

  ‘I shall have to tie up my skirts, Mr Hammond, in order to take a proper stride.’

  He glanced at the show of her ankle, then looked up with an earnest face. ‘Lady Helen, after today’s revelations you must know you are safe with me.’

  For a moment, Helen was nonplussed. ‘Oh, lud,’ she said on a wave of understanding. ‘Of course.’

  They looked at one another — an instant of shared absurdity — then burst out laughing, both bent over and gasping.

  Two hours later, Helen had walked the length of the salon fifty-two times, training her body to stride purposefully through the space rather than step prettily across it. Over and over Mr Hammond had patiently corrected every part of her, until she felt she swaggered as well as any young gent. Finally, he called a stop, nodding approvingly as Helen followed him with her best manly saunter to the beer jug set on the mantel.

  ‘You have it now,’ he said, lifting the jug. ‘The trick, however, is to maintain the disguise even in times of high duress. It must become second nature and that means practice.’

  He passed her a glass of beer, then poured his own. ‘Small beer. You’d best get used to it.’

  Helen looked at the murky brew and took an experimental mouthful. It was malty, warm and somewhat sour.

  ‘Bigger mouthfuls,’ Mr Hammond urged. ‘Do not be so delicate.’

  She obeyed, revelling in the chance to gulp rather than sip. ‘It tastes a bit like …’

  ‘Cat piss?’

  She choked. ‘No. I was thinking more of …’

  ‘Donkey piss?’

  Ah, a test. A young man in the company of another would not baulk at such language.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Donkey piss.’

  He grinned his approval. ‘It is the least alcoholic of the beers.’ He held his glass to the light and regarded the amber liquid with distaste, then looked past it to meet her eyes, the lightness gone from his face. ‘As you have seen at many a dinner party, most men drink the heavier wines and spirits, and well into excess. It is even more so when men are alone. While you are in disguise, you will have to pace your liquor intake.’

  Helen peered into her glass again. ‘I have never been inebriated.’

  ‘Of course not.’ He waved his hand in dismissal of such a possibility, the elegant gesture drawing Helen’s eye. ‘In the male milieu, however, it does not matter if a man falls over drunk. Sometimes it is even expected. In our world, however, it can be fatal.’

  He raised his glass again. It was empty. Helen frowned. A minute ago it had been full, and she was sure he had not drained it.

  He winked. ‘Remind me to show you some tricks that will help you discard a glass or two without being seen. It can mean all the difference when trying to keep one’s wits.’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘Practice,’ he said, reaching for the jug again. ‘A lot of practice. I have been doing this for a very long time.’

  Helen eyed him speculatively. ‘Longer than the Dark Days Club?’

  He poured himself another glass, intent upon the action. ‘So, young fellow. That latest mill was a smoky affair. The first bruiser had bottom, but it was all a bit of the home-brewed, if you ask me.’

  Helen blinked at the sudden shift in language. He was speaking cant, the dialect of the lower classes. Many young gentlemen used phrases from the London underworld — it was a fashionable affectation — but Mr Hammond spoke it with the confidence of a native. It would seem his past held a great deal more colour than was usual for a young landed gentleman, and clearly he was not going to share it.

  ‘What did I just say?’ he asked, placing the jug back on the mantel.

  Another test. For the past two weeks, she had been studying Mr Grose’s recently published Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue alongside her alchemy books, trying to treat the startling revelations of attitude and behaviour within it as if she were merely learning another language. It had to be said that learning cant was far more fascinating than the impenetrable codes of the alchemists.

  ‘You said, the latest boxing match was a curious affair. The first fighter had courage, but …’ She faltered.

  ‘But?’

  ‘No, don’t tell me.’ She raised a forestalling finger. ‘It was all a bit amateur and untrained.’

  ‘Good work!’ A slap on her back forced her forward a step, slopping half her beer onto the floor. ‘And be prepared for that kind of thing. Men like to hit each other.’

  ‘So I have noticed.’

  A loud knock turned them both towards the door.

  ‘Wait,’ Helen called. She thrust her glass into Mr Hammond’s hand and, with a wild glance at him, dug her fingers into the knot of her skirt. It came free, the hem dropping back around her feet in a creased swirl of linen. ‘Yes, enter.’

  The door opened to admit Geoffrey, the first footman. He walked across the room — a solid, masculine stride, Helen noted — and bowed. ‘My lady, Miss Darby asks that you join her in the rear yard. She said to tell you it is most urgent.’

  The messenger she had sent to Delia must have returned and with bad news. But why had Darby sent Geoffrey and not come herself?

  ‘In the rear yard?’ Mr Hammond said. ‘That’s an odd request.’

  ‘I am sure it is something to do with her Terrene training,’ Helen said. How quickly lies came to her lips now; a requisite of this new world. She dipped into a curtsey. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Hammond.’

  He bowed. ‘Of course. We are done here anyway.’

  The way to the rear yard was
via the busy basement kitchen and Helen passed through it apace, barely acknowledging the startled curtseys from Cook and her two girls. The warm air held the aroma of cooking pastry and braised meat — game pies for dinner — the rich smell following her as she climbed the three stone steps to the back door.

  It was already standing open, the framed view of the yard affording her a glimpse of a large bay horse, a dusty young man and a corner of Darby’s brown calico dress. Good, the messenger had arrived.

  ‘That is true,’ she heard Darby say, ‘but it is also true that my lady is not expecting you.’

  Her tone was far too polite for a messenger, and anyway Helen had been expecting him. To whom was Darby speaking? Helen’s innards clenched with terrible intuition as she stepped into the yard. Three people stood beside the horse: the messenger, Darby and, yes, her friend Delia. Holy heaven, Delia had taken matters into her own hands and come for her explanation.

  Helen stopped still. She had just sworn a Royal oath that commanded silence. She could not tell Delia anything, let alone the true identity of her dead suitor.

  ‘Helen! My dear! There you are.’ Delia crossed the stone flags, her hands held out. ‘I am sorry to arrive without any warning. It is unpardonable, I know, but I could not stay with my parents a minute longer.’

  Helen received Delia’s gloved hands in her own and stared at her friend. Suffering, it seemed, had whittled her back to her bones: her features had sharpened into a somewhat haggard elegance, and a figure that had once been pronounced shapeless by whispering matrons now curved in a very fashionable way under her blue velvet spencer. Beneath her plain straw bonnet, her fair hair clustered in natural ringlets around her face — far more suited to her new angles than the coiffures forced upon her by her mother — and her skin, usually prone to ruddiness, was as pale as Caroline Lamb’s.

  ‘Upon my soul, Delia, I hardly recognise you.’

  She nodded. ‘I have not eaten or slept in weeks, Helen, and I have endured so many blood-lets. Papa thinks he can have the madness drained from me.’

  ‘Delia, you are not mad. Do not even think it.’ She could at least assure her friend of that, couldn’t she?

  The messenger cleared his throat. Helen dragged her eyes from her friend’s transformation, practicalities overtaking the shock of her appearance. She read the expectant look in the man’s dirt-streaked face: he was waiting for his payment.

  ‘Delia, how exactly did you get here?’ she asked, a dreadful thought dawning. ‘You did not ride behind this young man, did you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Delia said. ‘I rode, and your man walked.’

  No point telling her that the messenger was not a private servant, but a hired man. ‘You walked?’ Helen said to him. ‘All that way?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ He bobbed his head. ‘Miss Cransdon insisted on coming back with me, so I put her up on Polly-girl and walked her back. Didna take more than five hours.’

  Helen shot a glance at Delia, who nodded.

  ‘That was very gallant of you …?’

  ‘Leonard, my lady.’ He cast a wary look at Delia. ‘I couldna do much else. Miss Cransdon was ad-a-mant.’ He sounded out the word, obviously newly learned.

  ‘I see.’ Helen smiled inwardly. Delia had always been known for her tenacity. ‘Thank you, Leonard. Darby, give him an extra crown for his quick thinking and courtesy.’

  ‘My lady, thank you,’ he said breathlessly, bowing.

  ‘It is for your discretion too, Leonard,’ Helen said. ‘And before you go, you may feed your horse and take your dinner with the servants.’

  Darby drew Helen’s purse from her apron pocket and counted out the money. ‘Mind what her ladyship says,’ she warned, her eyes fierce as she passed over the coins. ‘No breath of this around the taverns.’

  Leonard shook his head. ‘I’d not get much in the way of work if I blabbed everyone’s business now, would I?’ He bobbed another bow to Helen and Delia, then with a click of his tongue led his horse towards the mews.

  ‘You must think me very forward,’ Delia said. ‘But when he arrived with your letter and was so secretive in passing it to me, I saw my chance.’ She gathered Helen’s hands again, holding them as if they were the only anchors that held her from a wild sea. ‘Helen, my father has decided to send me to a sanatorium. I overheard him telling Mother.’

  ‘Oh, no. That is awful, Delia.’

  ‘You said you would tell me the truth about Mr Trent’s demise. Whatever it is, can you tell my parents too?’ Delia’s grey eyes were fixed upon her own, the plea in them sending a jab of guilt through Helen. How could she refuse such desperation? ‘I know you wrote that you could not, but perhaps if they knew —’

  ‘Delia, this is not the place.’ She softened the interruption with a squeeze of her friend’s hands.

  She had to get Delia inside as discreetly as possible; she needed time to think through this complication. The explanation she had promised was now impossible to deliver under the mandate of her oath, yet she could not abandon her friend to self-doubt and incarceration. She saw no clear way through: either she broke her word to her friend or to the Palace. And either way, lives were at stake: Delia’s, or Mr Hammond’s and her own. Still, even with such a dilemma on her hands, she could not leave Delia in the yard. Somehow they had to get past the beady attentions of Mrs Kent, the housekeeper, and Garner, and delay the advent of Lady Margaret.

  ‘Come inside,’ she said. ‘I hope you do not mind that we pass through the kitchens; it is the quickest way. Did you not bring any luggage?’

  ‘No, I just got on the horse and came.’

  Helen heard the slur of fatigue in Delia’s voice. Whatever difficulties her arrival had caused, her well-being must come first.

  ‘I can see you are exhausted. You need to eat and rest, and then we will talk. Wait here for a moment.’ With a reassuring pat upon her friend’s shoulder, Helen stepped away and motioned Darby to her side. ‘Is Garner in his pantry?’ she asked softly.

  ‘No, my lady. He and the footmen are preparing the dining room for luncheon.’

  ‘Even better. Make sure Mrs Kent does not see us on our way up the back stairs. I want to keep this quiet for as long as possible.’

  Darby nodded, but her brow furrowed. ‘It will not be very long — someone will tell her ladyship.’

  ‘I know.’

  Darby gave another nod and hurried to the kitchen door.

  With an eye to her maid’s progress, Helen asked Delia, ‘To be clear, am I to understand that your parents do not know where you are? You did not leave a note?’

  ‘No.’ Delia bit her lip. ‘I am afraid they will see this as yet more evidence of an unsound mind. What sane young woman would abandon her parents and a safe home?’

  Helen gave a sympathetic nod as she concentrated upon her Reclaimer hearing and reached into the house. Under the clang of pots and orders from Cook, she found Darby’s voice: ah, she was telling the housekeeper about a cleaning mishap in the vestibule. And they were already moving towards the front of the house. Good girl.

  She brought her attention back to Delia. ‘You know we must send a messenger to your parents to tell them of your whereabouts. They will be greatly disturbed by your disappearance.’

  ‘Must we?’

  ‘Yes, but I think we may delay a little longer until we decide what is to be done.’

  Delia clutched at her hand again. ‘Thank you.’

  Darby should have Mrs Kent in the vestibule by now; it was time to move. Helen steered Delia down the steps into the kitchen, past the cook and her staff intent upon taking the pies from the ovens, and around to the back staircase. It was blessedly deserted.

  ‘Oh, my, those pies do smell good,’ Delia said.

  Helen touched her finger to her lips. Delia ducked her head in apology.

  ‘It is just that we need some time before Lady Margaret knows you are here,’ Helen whispered. ‘She will insist a message be sent to your parents immediately
.’

  Or more likely, Helen thought, she would pack Delia into a carriage and send her back to her parents immediately, but her friend need not know that.

  Delia nodded, her mouth pressed into obedient silence.

  Cautiously they climbed the stairs, Helen leading the way with ears strained for any sounds of approaching servants. On the ground floor, she heard the tutting of Mrs Kent in the vestibule, the scritch of a nib and an irritated sigh in the morning room — Lady Margaret answering correspondence — and Garner in the dining room ordering a footman to replace a butter knife.

  They hurried up the next set of steps. Helen found two voices murmuring: maids indulging in an illicit chat as they tidied the drawing room. Otherwise, all was silent. They crept up to the second floor. Near the top of the flight, Helen paused and listened carefully to a new set of footsteps. Was it a maid in her bedchamber? No, the movement was in Lady Margaret’s room: no doubt her woman, Tulloch. Grabbing Delia’s hand, she pulled her along the corridor and into her own bedchamber, shutting the door firmly behind them.

  ‘These are my rooms,’ she said, gesturing around the royal blue and gold interior that had been decorated — rather unpatriotically — in the French empire style. The adjoining door that led to her small dressing room stood open. She walked across and closed it. ‘We shall be private here. Come, sit down and rest.’

  She pulled out the gilt chair from beneath the matching writing desk and waved Delia over. It was not the most comfortable of seats, but it was the only one in the room apart from the bed. Delia slumped into its delicate curves and plucked fretfully at the ribbons of her straw bonnet.

  ‘You are very good to help me, Helen. I fear I have placed you in a very difficult position with your chaperone.’ She sighed and lifted the bonnet from her head, a dusty arc of road grime across her forehead. ‘I have waited so long to know the truth, and now I am here.’ She smiled wearily. ‘At last.’

  ‘At last,’ Helen echoed. ‘Would you not like to wash before we talk? Let me send for my maid.’