A threat that worked because she came quite close to meaning it. Louisa Kittering did not matter very much at all, except as a connection to her friend, the one she’d met at the previous society meeting. Eliza’s time in the Kittering household had failed to show her that woman again, though, or to turn up her name. It was worth risking her position at Cromwell Road to come to Islington, where she had a better chance of seeing the woman again.
Eliza’s optimism had been sufficient that she paid for an omnibus fare out to Islington, rather than walking the whole distance. She even looked respectable enough that a gentleman gave up his seat inside the ’bus so she wouldn’t have to climb the ladder to the knife-board bench on top. Crammed in between a mother with three squalling children and a clerk who somehow managed to sleep through all the disturbances, she’d felt very pleased with herself … until she got to Islington High Street.
Where she had stood for the last five minutes, staring down White Lion Street at the innocent facade of No. 9, trying and failing to convince herself to knock on the door.
The problem was that she still didn’t know what to expect inside. How many people would there be, and of what sort? Her skill at lying went as far as pretending to be English, but she’d never masqueraded as anything other than the lower-class woman she was. She did not know how to be a housewife, or a bookish bluestocking—would there even be women in there? Yes, there must; last time there had been Miss Kittering and her unknown friend. But she didn’t have the first notion what would go on at such a meeting, whether they would discuss books, or poetry …
Or personal encounters with faerie-kind.
She heard a church bell ring the hour. Seven o’clock. The time had come either to go in, or to admit that she was a coward.
For Owen’s sake, she could not be a coward. Eliza squared her shoulders, marched down White Lion Street, and rapped the knocker on the door.
It opened almost immediately. No footmen here, and Eliza recognized the signs about the maid’s appearance that said she’d hurriedly cleaned herself up for door-opening duties, and would go back to dirtier work as soon as the meeting was underway. Which put Eliza slightly more at ease. Any family that could possibly afford a manservant to answer the door had one; that meant the people here were not so high above her as she’d feared.
The maid prompted her, “Yes?”
She’d been so busy thinking that she hadn’t said anything. “Oh! I’m, ah—Elizabeth Baker. I’m here for the meeting?”
“Yes, of course. They’re just getting started. If you’ll follow me?”
Eliza stood aside in the narrow front hall so the maid could close the door, then followed her up the stairs. I’m late. I should have known it; nobody went in while I was standing there, like an indecisive fool.
The house was old and a little shabby, the linoleum scratched in places, the stair railing well worn by countless hands. Voices came muffled through a door on the first floor, which stopped when the maid tapped on it. She waited until she heard a reply, then opened the door. Warm gaslight flooded out, and Eliza had her first proper sight of the members of the London Fairy Society.
There were only seven, but that was enough to crowd the small drawing room, taking up most of the seating. The gentlemen—three of them—stood as she came in, and Eliza dropped into a curtsy before realizing it made her look like a servant. “I’m sorry, I know I’ve come late—is this the Fairy Society?”
She straightened, and found herself staring at Louisa Kittering.
The young woman was seated on a chair by the windows, looking like the very picture of horrified surprise. Eliza feared she mirrored that expression, but her months of lying had been good practice; when she wrenched her gaze away, she saw only mild curiosity in the others’ faces, and nobody was looking between the two of them as if waiting for an explanation.
The remainder were a trio of gentlemen; a pair of middle-aged women who were very obviously sisters; and an elderly woman by the hearth, who answered Eliza. “Yes, do come in—it’s no trouble; we haven’t yet stopped ourselves chattering long enough to do anything like business. What is your name, child?”
Doubt paralyzed her tongue for an instant. Miss Kittering would expect her to say White; the maid had already heard Baker. You’ll already have to do something about Miss Kittering. Don’t connect yourself to Cromwell Road. “Elizabeth Baker,” she said, and made herself lift her eyes to the woman’s face. It was a friendly countenance, wrinkled by many smiles—entirely unlike Mrs. Kittering or Mrs. Fowler, whose forbidding expressions had trained her very thoroughly to keep her gaze cast down.
“Welcome, Mrs. Baker—or is it Miss? Miss Baker. I am Mrs. Chase, and as this is my house, so far I have been the de facto president of our little society, though we have not yet gone so far as to establish rules or any kind of official leadership. We are quite informal here, you see.”
Eliza was profoundly grateful for that informality; she’d already had enough of a fright. Mrs. Chase introduced her to the three gentlemen—Mr. Myers, Mr. Graff, and a Scostman named Macgregor—and to Miss Kittering and the sisters, a pair of spinsters named Goodemeade. “Please, have a seat,” the woman said, after all the greetings were done.
The furniture was mismatched in a way no elegant woman would ever have permitted, a mix of heavy new chairs with thick padding and older, sticklike pieces. Mr. Myers surrendered one of the former to Eliza, startling her; she was more accustomed to gentlemen ignoring or making crude suggestions to her. She settled into it, trying not to fidget with the skirt of Ann Wick’s dress. Mrs. Chase said, “You have an interest in fairies?”
“Oh, yes,” Eliza answered. She glanced around as she said it, partly to see if the others read her heartfelt tone as enthusiasm, but mostly to see what Louisa Kittering was doing. The young woman’s face had settled like stone. It didn’t look like anger, though, or the self-righteous indignation of a girl who had caught her maid in a lie; it looked more like confusion and dread.
Then understanding came, and Eliza fought not to laugh. I’m not the one who’s been caught out—she is!
Mrs. Kittering had forbidden her daughter to go out tonight, because of the dinner party. She was utterly inflexible upon that point. It therefore followed that Miss Kittering must have sneaked out of the house. Her supposed plan for the evening had been to attend a theatrical performance with a friend … but Eliza’s presence made it seem as if the truth had been discovered. In which case she had to be wondering where her mother was, and why Eliza had not seized her by the ear to drag her home.
Let her chew upon that for a while. A plan was taking shape in Eliza’s mind, but it could not be put in motion until the meeting ended.
Which left her with her original purpose in coming. She was disappointed not to see the other woman, Miss Kittering’s friend, who had claimed to know more of faeries than the others here. Still, there might be something of value to learn.
Mrs. Chase had gone on talking, words Eliza only half heard; something about there being a great diversity of interests present. “Mr. Graff, you had indicated that you wished to speak upon—anthropology, was it?”
He rose at her words, tucking his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. “Yes, anthropology. Ladies, gentlemen—I recently returned from missionary work in Africa, and as a result have taken quite an interest in the superstitions of primitive peoples. As some of you may be aware, this often takes the form of animism, totemism, and similar beliefs. Well, the chaps I was dealing with were full of such things, always talking about lion-men or what have you, and it occurred to me that what they were describing were not so different from our own English fairies. More primitive, of course—a reflection of their own lesser development—but the kinship can be seen.
“Visiting places of that sort … it’s like looking back into our own, less civilized past. And so I have begun to wonder whether the fairy beliefs we have here might not be a relic of similar practices back in pagan days.”
/> Eliza did not like him in the slightest. He did not look at anyone as he spoke, but rather directed his gaze above their heads, which had the effect of lifting his nose to an arrogant angle. She liked him even less when he chose an example to illustrate his point. “Take the legends—very common in the north of England, but found elsewhere as well—of supernatural black dogs. We know that the dog was an object of veneration for ancient Celtic peoples; think of Cú Chulainn, the Hound of Culann. Might there not have been a dog cult in northern England? Perhaps a funerary cult, given the association of such phantasms with death; or perhaps they were warriors, garbing themselves as dogs before going into battle. Then we might very easily explain the legends as folk memory, preserving a faint, distorted echo of past truths.”
Her one comfort, upon hearing those words, was that nobody else in the room looked terribly impressed, either. One of the Goodemeade sisters made a faintly outraged noise at the word distorted; the other laid a quelling hand on her knee.
There was no one to quell Eliza. “What of people who have seen those black dogs?” she asked.
His mustaches did not hide his condescending smile. “What have they seen? Supernatural creatures? Or merely some neighbor’s black-furred mongrel, that startled them along a lonely road at night?”
“If I may,” Macgregor said. The habits of deference made Eliza hesitate, forgetting that she had a right to speak here, and by the time she found her tongue again, the Scotsman had already begun to air his own theory. “I agree that we must look to the past for explanations—but not to superstition. As an educated man, Mr. Graff, you must of course be familiar with Darwin’s theory of evolution…”
As he began outlining a place for fairies in that scheme, Eliza sank back in disgust. If these people believed in evolution, there was no point in wasting her time listening to them. No wonder that other woman took Miss Kittering aside. The young woman was observing all this with condescending amusement, while Mrs. Chase exchanged a look with the Goodemeade sisters, who shook their heads. Eliza wished she could leave the meeting, without drawing unwanted attention.
Mr. Myers finally broke in, interrupting the increasingly heated argument between Graff and Macgregor. “Gentlemen, you are debating theory, without evidence. Would it not be more productive to ask ourselves what proof we have of fairies?”
Graff’s exhalation of annoyance ruffled his mustaches. “What proof do you think exists?”
“People who have seen them,” Eliza said again. Then she hesitated. Now was the moment to tell her own story—
But what would it gain? Graff wouldn’t listen to her; she could tell that just by looking at him. Her suspicion was confirmed when Myers said, “Scholars of folklore have been collecting such stories for some time. Indeed, some claim to have seen fairies themselves, particularly in Ireland—”
“Ireland! Bah!” Graff dismissed that with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “Superstitious peasants, the lot of them, and probably drunk to boot.”
Myers stiffened, giving him a very cold look. “As a scholar, sir, I should look first to the evidence they present, rather than the nationality of those who present it.”
He, at least, might listen if Eliza spoke. But it was clear from what Myers said, continuing his argument with Graff and Macgregor, that he had no personal experience of faeries himself. He could not help her. Glancing across to the silent Miss Kittering, Eliza saw her own frustration mirrored. Of course; she probably came here hoping to meet her friend. Now she’s gone and disobeyed her mother—and been caught out—and all she has to show for it is a stupid argument among men who love the sound of their own voices.
Mrs. Chase finally managed to calm them into something like a truce, once it became obvious that neither of the men was going to sway the others. Unfortunately, she then turned her attention to Eliza. “So, Miss Baker. We have already heard from Mr. Graff, who is the other newcomer among us, but you have been rather quiet. Tell us, what is your interest in fairies?”
I want to know how to catch one and wring his neck. Eliza pasted a vague smile onto her face, covering the anger beneath. “Oh,” she said, “I’ve always found the stories very interesting—the Irish ones particularly,” she added, as a jab at Graff. He snorted.
Mrs. Chase, however, brightened. “Indeed? Then surely you’ve read the works of Lady Wilde?” Eliza was forced to shake her head. “Oh, but you must—she’s quite a famous poet, really, under the name of ‘Speranza,’ and she has been publishing articles based on her late husband’s research. Here, I should have one on hand—”
One of the Goodemeade sisters rose on the old woman’s behalf and found it, and they passed the remainder of the time in listening to Mrs. Chase read. Only Mr. Myers seemed to pay much attention, though, and so the meeting straggled to an unhappy close.
Eliza rose promptly from her chair, intending to go straight over to Miss Kittering. She no longer cared whether anyone guessed they already knew each other. Before she could take a step, though, the Miss Goodemeades appeared in front of her. “We didn’t have a chance to welcome you properly before the meeting, but we wanted to say we’re very happy you came. Did you see the advertisement we placed in the newspaper? Or did a friend tell you about our society?”
“The newspaper,” Eliza said, distracted. Miss Kittering was speaking to Mr. Myers, but she couldn’t hear what the young woman was saying.
“You see?” Miss Goodemeade said to her sister. “I told you that would catch the right kind of eyes! Well, some of the right kind; I fear we’ve pulled in a few we might have done without.” This last was said in a lower tone, easily hidden under the argument Graff and Macgregor had resumed.
“But we’re very glad to have you,” the sister said. The two women were almost impossible to tell apart: both short, both honey haired and honey eyed, in dresses of brightly printed cotton. Only the roses on one and the daisies on the other kept them from being identical; unfortunately, Eliza had forgotten their given names. “In fact, we should like to invite you to join us at another meeting—more a private circle of friends, really, that—”
Eliza risked a glance over at Miss Kittering and Mr. Myers, only to find Mrs. Chase had taken the fellow aside into private conversation, and the drawing room door was swinging shut behind Miss Kittering.
Her heart leapt into her mouth. If she were to salvage anything from the wreck of this evening—and keep it from getting any worse—she could not let the young woman go off without her!
“I’m sorry,” she said, cutting Miss Goodemeade off. “I’m afraid I have to go.”
“Oh, you mustn’t,” the daisy Goodemeade said, trying to catch her hand.
Eliza pulled away, making some half-coherent excuse, not caring anymore that she was catching people’s attention. “At least come back next month—” the rose Goodemeade said.
“Yes, certainly,” Eliza lied; anything to get away without being inexcusably rude. Why do I even care? I’ve no reason to see these people again. But she was reluctant to hurt the sisters’ feelings, when they obviously meant well. “I’m very sorry—I’ve stayed too long already—goodbye.” She flung herself out to the staircase.
Even with her haste, those words proved prophetic. When she got downstairs, Miss Kittering was gone, and the maid nowhere in sight. Eliza hurried out into the street, but it was no use; the gaslight showed her a variety of people and vehicles, but not her quarry. “Stupid girl,” Eliza muttered. “You should have tried to talk to me, bribe me to lie—” Instead, she’d run. To her home? If not there, then Eliza didn’t have the first guess where she’d gone; so Cromwell Road it was.
If she hurried, she might even be able to stop Miss Kittering from doing anything else stupid. The Angel Inn was just on the corner, a few doors down, with cabs standing outside. Cursing the expense, and the optimism that had made her waste money on an omnibus earlier, Eliza went to hire a driver, and try to race Miss Kittering home.
Cromwell Road, South Kensington: April 11, 18
84
She saw no one outside when she arrived, and hesitated for just an instant, wondering. Had Miss Kittering gone elsewhere? If she’d come here, and already gone inside, there was nothing Eliza could do for her; by now she’d certainly been caught.
Then she saw a furtive shape dodging from shadow to gaslight shadow, toward the servants’ entrance on Queensberry Place.
Eliza couldn’t be both fast and quiet. She ran, and the furtive shape did, too, throwing herself down the steps to the area. Eliza caught her halfway down, with a grip hard enough to bruise.
Miss Kittering drew breath to scream, until Eliza clapped her other hand over the young lady’s mouth. “Hush, you stupid girl,” she hissed, half her attention on the servants’ door. “Unless you want them out here, before you’ve had a chance to save yourself from what’s waiting inside.”
The struggling stilled. When Eliza was sure Miss Kittering had calmed, she lifted her hand, and the young lady turned to face her.
Standing on a higher step put her at eye level with Miss Kittering, who licked her lips and tried to regain a measure of dignity. “What do you think you’re doing, grabbing me like that? You have no right to treat me this way; I’ll—”
Her voice was far too loud; the basement would be full of servants, swarming like ants in a kicked hill, and if Eliza didn’t stop her Miss Kittering would bring them all out to investigate. But she held an advantage: whatever secrets Miss Kittering might keep, she was a sheltered soul. Eliza, on the other hand, was a daughter of London’s Irish slums. Brendan Hennessy, a petty criminal she’d known in Whitechapel, had once told her people weren’t much different from dogs: the one who came out on top wasn’t necessarily the bigger or the stronger, but the one who growled louder, bit harder, and scared the other into submission.