It was early afternoon a week or so after that first magical night with Marcia, and Sam was hard at work in the garden. With the weather on the turn the ground was softening and he was potting about experimentally with a trowel, investigating if some of the hardier plants might be able to be transplanted from the glass house. The matter wasn’t looking particularly positive, but there were still some patches promising enough to examine more closely, and as such he was sufficiently absorbed in the work that he did not hear Frank the boots approaching until the lad spoke up.
“Oi. Hocking.” Frank said cheekily, grinning at the sight of Sam jumping like a startled cat. “The missus wants to see you in her chambers.”
“Now?” Sam asked, concerned and suspicious of a summons from Lady Ashwater to her bedroom in the middle of the day.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
Sam sighed and began hurriedly packing his tools away into the wheelbarrow. Stowing the barrow itself quickly in the potting shed, he made his way to the back door of the house and spent a few minutes scraping off his boots and scrubbing down his trousers. Eventually satisfied that he would no longer likely track dirt into the house; he took off his hat, stowed it under his arm, and ventured indoors to answer his employer’s summons.
“Ah, Samson. There you are.” Lady Ashwater beamed as she opened the door to Sam’s nervous knock. “Please come in. There is a matter I require your assistance with.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Sam said gloomily, his heart sinking.
“Oh Samson. Why so glum?” Lady Ashwater tipped her head on its side. Then a realisation spread across her face.
“Oh! No you silly boy! No, nothing like that kind of assistance. I promised Edward I’d be good, and it hasn’t proven ever so difficult a commitment thus far. No Samson, I need your advice.”
“I... My advice, Ma’am?” Sam asked, stuttering.
“Yes. Your advice. It has occurred to me that something I have rather been putting off.” Lady Ashwater said regally. “Is the task of selecting a lady’s maid from amongst your compatriots. Up until this point it has been a rotating role, while I have ruminated on my options. It might be best to hire somebody in, but... Well, one does not like to speak of financial embarrassment, especially with mere servants, but I think that with the war such things are a little evident, and understandable, don’t you?” She looked at him in askance.
“Um, well, yes Ma’am.” Sam stammered. “As I remember such a difficulty was how I secured my own position, and the war indeed rages on, so I hear.”
“Quite.” Lady Ashwater said, satisfied. “So I have called you up here, Samson, to consult you as an informed but uninvested party as to what choice I should make from amongst our existing chambermaids. You know them well, but you are no longer one of them, wouldn’t you say?”
Sam blushed. “Yes Ma’am.”
“So to that end I would value your input on which of them might be best suited to the role of Lady’s Maid. I have my own opinions, but I would care to hear yours, in case there are any surprises my position has denied me insight into. Lady’s maid is, as you are aware, a rather intimate role, and so I wish to be certain of the ideal candidate’s reliability and trustworthiness.”
Sam considered for a moment. “Well Ma’am, informally amongst the chambermaids Hat— I mean Harriet is the most senior, so the increase in her rank amongst the maids would be accepted quite naturally, and as far as the rest of us would consider she is very much the most sensible as well. I think she’d be excellent at the job.”
“So do I, Samson, but unfortunately as I understand it Harriet is ineligible for the position.” Lady Ashwater replied.
“Ineligible, Ma’am?” Sam couldn’t stop himself raising his eyebrows.
“Yes... I have heard some tell that she is engaged, is she not?” Lady Ashwater mused.
“Yes, Ma’am. I don’t know a lot about her fiance except that his name is Norman and he’s a clerk of some sort in London. I don’t think they’re to be married so terribly soon, Ma’am, but she and he have been courting in some form or other since before she was in maid school so I think he’s the serious sort about it nonetheless.”
“How lovely.” Lady Ashwater said in a tone of minor interest. “Well, my point being whilst that’s marvellous for Harriet and not a concern at all since she’s easily enough replaced when the time comes, it does mean that her future in our household is already limited, and I find myself without the patience to anticipate to change my personal maid every few months. So no, I think her engagement makes her an unsuitable choice.” She turned to look at the notebook before her over her spectacles. “What about Miss Catherine, Samson? Would you recommend her?”
Sam chewed thoughtfully. “No, Ma’am. I would not recommend Catherine, personally.”
“And why is that?” Lady Ashwater’s expression changed to one of birdlike interest.
Sam was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully, then he spoke. “Not to cast aspersions where they didn’t ought be, Ma’am, or to tell tales out of school, so to speak, but for as long as I have known her, Catherine has been a chronic gossip. In her nature, it is.”
“Ah. And you think she would... Divulge my sensitive matters to unfortunate parties?” Lady Ashwater looked concerned.
“No Ma’am I don’t.” Sam rebuffed hurriedly. “In fact I rather think the opposite would be the problem. For all that, Catherine is an obedient hard worker and she knows very well what secrets or private matters have to be shut up tight and from whom. She takes the privacy of those she’s loyal to very seriously, Ma’am, and I’ve been a personal beneficiary of that quality of her so I know of what I speak, just so as you don’t think I’m suggesting she’s unsuitable more broadly. But to be filling her head every day with the intimate observations of a lady’s maid, Ma’am...”
“I think I see what you’re driving at, Samson.” Lady Ashwater said kindly. “It’s not that you think there’s any risk of Catherine gossiping where she didn’t ought, but that she would be distracted and irked by having to keep so much to herself?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Sam said, relieved that he didn’t have to find a way to articulate the sentence himself and that her ladyship seemed to understand his point well enough that he probably hadn’t got Catherine in too much trouble. “Yes that’s it exactly. I think she would find she didn’t enjoy the position and it would have an unfortunate effect on the quality of her work, the amount of effort she’d be expending to keep it all properly shut up tight. If I may make a suggestion, Ma’am...” He moved to change the subject in case his luck didn’t hold. “I would very much recommend Miss Marcia Trembley for the job. She is, in my experience, very dependable and trustworthy, and demure, perfect for a lady’s maid position, Ma’am.”
“I’m afraid not, Samson.” Lady Ashwater sighed. “Marcia is ineligible for the same reason as Harriet, unfortunately.”
“She is, Ma’am?” Sam was surprised. “T...to the best of my knowledge Marcia is very much not engaged.”
“Well, whose fault is that?” The older woman smiled to herself as she examined the notebook again. “Or are the fees of high street jewellers now so exorbitant that even the princely salary I bankrupt myself to keep you on cannot procure a suitable ring?”
Sam’s blood ran cold as he realised the trap he had been led into.
“Ma’am. Your ladyship, I...” he stuttered.
“Did you really think I didn’t know, Mr Hocking?” Lady Ashwater’s face turned back to him with an expression so stern that Sam thought he might cry. “Mrs Breadworth was quick to inform me of her ruminations as to the peculiar sights and sounds she’d seen and heard during the night as soon as they crystallised, but I had already suspected ever since I saw Marcia’s reaction to your little boxing match with my son. I am sure I do not need to tell you that were these any normal circumstances one or the other or even the both of you would be leaving my employ in total disgrace this very day or even earlier for seeking to deceive me and bringing shame upon your position.”
“Yes Ma’am.” Sam said in a small voice, his face hot and prickly.
“However.” Lady Ashwater continued. “Under these more peculiar circumstances I assure you that as long as neither of you slackens in your work and you maintain at minimum the level of secrecy you have committed yourselves to already so as to avoid embarrassing this house, you have my quiet and surreptitious blessing and approval. I have done you the favour of assuring Mrs Breadworth that the noises she heard were the water pipes, and birds on the roof. I don’t think she believes me, but she understands she has been instructed to and that has always been enough for her.”
“Ma’am?” Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“You are no longer just my little project, Samson.” His employer rose from the stool at her desk. “There are now wheels in motion of a grander scale, and you will have a role to play as an example. A proof of concept. The fact that I have made not just a man of you but apparently one of an appropriately red-blooded character is useful information and rather a delight to me, and it will help to have both you and Marcia close at hand going forward, just in case I require your example to iron out some... difficulties in the coming months.”
Sam wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that, but he liked the sound of he and Marcia being sacked even less, so with herculean effort he held his tongue.
“Your generosity abounds, Ma’am.” He bowed to her. “And it is sorely appreciated. But that being the case and if it pleases you, M’lady, I would humbly request that that we speak no more of it.”
“I think that is a good idea.” Lady Ashwater agreed.
“In any case.” Sam continued. “That means your only remaining choice for Lady’s Maid, should you deign to take my advice regarding Catherine of course, Ma’am, is Lo— I mean Charlotte.”
“Indeed.” Lady Ashwater looked pensively into space as she leaned back a little on the writing desk. “Meek little thing, isn’t she? Still—” She eyed Sam up and down triumphantly. “I’ve made capable, suitable servants out of meek little chambermaids before, I daresay I can do it again.”
Marcia’s door cracked open in response to Sam’s timid midnight knock and he saw her eye peering out. Once again, though less enthusiastically than before, the door was swung open wide a moment in order that he be pulled inside, then shut as quietly as she could manage.
“Sam!” Marcia said, a little nervously. “Back... So soon? Are you sure that’s wise?”
“The Missus knows.” Sam said bluntly.
Sufficient colour drained out of Marcia’s face that for a moment only Sam’s red hair would have denied the supposition of siblinghood between the two.
“Are you... Sure?” She peeped.
“Positive.” Sam replied. “She made fun of me for not having a ring on your finger yet. Apparently Breadcrust heard us and ratted.”
“Gosh. So what now? Are we being dismissed?”
“Not at all. She approves.”
“What?” Marcia exclaimed in alarm.
“Ah-sshh! I said she approves. We can do as we please as long as we stay discreet about it and don’t shame the house, so she said to me.”
“How on earth did you manage that, Sam?” Stars sparkled in Marcia’s big brown eyes. “I’ve never heard any such thing in service. Ever! Why would she give us permission to take a liberty like this?”
“Same reason as for every bloody liberty she gives me permission for.” Sam grumbled. “Because I’m her little experiment and she loves looking at me squirming under a microscope like some kind of etymologist or something. And now so are you, Marce. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Marcia reached up and cradled Sam’s cheek in her soft, tender hand. “It’s a wonderful gift from her, even if she’s being a bit of a wicked witch about it. But why does she care? What part of the experiment are we?”
“She likes that she’s made me ‘red-blooded’.” Sam murmured, taking Marcia gently around the waist and walking her over to the bed. “Which I presume means she’s rubbing her hands with glee right now that her injections and adjustments and such have surely made me so fully a man that my interests lie in the bosoms of the fairer sex.”
“Oh! Well I don’t know about gleeful rubbing...” Marcia made a pained smile. “But I’d say I’m quite thankful they have too, all told.” She swooped in and kissed Sam before tipping her head onto his shoulder.
“Hmmm.” Sam grimaced. “Yeah, well...”
Marcia’s ears pricked up and she sat up again. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m...” Sam struggled to speak through his furrowed expression. “I’m not sure they did, really.”
“Oh.” Marcia said sadly, taking her hands back to herself and clasping them in front of her. “So you don’t... It’s not like that after all?”
“Oh!” Sam turned in alarm and bored Marcia down to the bed. “Oh Marce don’t worry, it very much is like that.” He pressed his mouth against hers with a reassuring forced passion for a moment, before letting her go. “No, what I mean is, I don’t think it’s her and Dr. Casement who did it. I’ve been thinking about some stuff and... I’m not so sure now that I wasn’t like this... before.”
If Marcia’s eyes got any wider, they might fall out of their sockets, Sam thought.
“Before?” She breathed.
“It was...” Sam sighed. “The thing about being Jessica was it was much easier to just not think about stuff. There were so many things that were simpler just because I was sort of... Numb, I suppose? I didn’t have to trouble myself with what things meant because nothing really meant anything, in the end. Jessica was just like... a role in a play I’d been given to read, and never for me to mind why she thought or did anything.”
“But now...” Marcia’s eyes were so wide that in order to obey her reflex to raise an eyebrow she in fact had to lower one. “Now you’re remembering things and Sam can’t not think about them the way Jess did?”
“That’s it exactly.” Sam bit his lip, troubled. “You remember when we all used to get changed together an’ Lottie and I were always super shy, keeping our eyes to ourselves even if it made us late cause we couldn’t see what we were doing?”
“I remember.” Marcia giggled. “You turned bright red every time, both of you. Took you months to get accustomed.”
“Yeah well. More and more now I’m wondering why I did that.” Sam said unhappily. “And more and more I’m thinking that maybe it’s not entirely because I was as shy as poor Lot.”
“Oh my.” Marcia smirked. “Does this mean my handsome Mr Hocking used to be a bit of... What was it you said? A tourmaline?”
“Maybe...” Sam flushed beet red. “Or at least, whatever the kind is that likes men and women both, I think? But I never realised it. Like I say, easier not to think about things then. I’m really sorry Marce. I understand if that’s all too much of a queer business for you.”
“Everything about you is a queer business, Samson Hocking.” Marcia smiled. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way, trust me. I don’t care about who and what you were, it doesn’t matter to me. I know who and what you are now, and I love you for it so very much.”
“That’s a relief.” Sam smiled.
“And if that messes up the Missus’ plans, well, that’s all very unfortunate for her I’m sure.” Determination filled Marcia’s voice. “But I’m not going to let it spoil my happiness until it has to. What were you talking to her about anyway? Did you say she made fun of you for not putting a ring on me?”
“Yeah.” Sam said. “She wanted my opinion on who to make lady’s maid. And... I think I may have put my foot in it. Twice.”
“Twice?”
“She led me into the perfect trap for all the business with you and me to come out, of course.” Sam scratched his neck nervously. “But I think I might also have done a dirty deed to poor Cath.”
“Oh good lord. What did you do to Cath?”
“Well... Her ladyship was asking about who I recommended, and she asked about Cath and... I think I ran my mouth a bit about... about Cath’s mouth.”
“Oh Sam!” Marcia was aghast. “Is Cath going to be in trouble?”
“Don’t think so, I think I smoothed it all over.” Sam’s eyes flicked away to break her gaze. “But she’s not getting the lady’s maid job, that’s for sure.”
“Samson!”
“I couldn’t help it, Marce. She’s got some kind of... I don’t know, some kind of hold over me.” Sam protested. “That’s why I’m even like this in the first place, and you know, fair enough, thank you your ladyship it worked out all right and all the rest of it, but... Every time I go in to be spoken to and I think I’m gonner be buttoned up tight ‘cept for exactly what she asks of me... It’s like she casts some kind of spell on me and I blurt out whatever’s on my mind no matter what.”
“Hmm.” Marcia’s expression changed to a devious smirk. Sam gulped. He was quite familiar with this face, but back when he was just one of the maids it had signalled joint mischief. Nowadays it was likely more a sign of the kind of plotting that would inflame some part of his anatomy in some way once it came out.
“Well.” Marcia mused in a singsong voice. “Little old... but she’s very glamorous, the missus, ain’t she? Knowing what we know now, I think I might have a theory about what kind of hold she has over you.” She giggled uncontrollably at the horrified expression on Sam’s face.
“Absolutely not!” He protested. “And believe me, Marce, I’ve seen more than enough of her ladyship that I’d have caught on quick if that were it.” He wished he looked and sounded more convincing, having flushed crimson again at the mere thought.
“That’s a shame.” Marcia replied. “I was rather hoping it was a power we might all have over you. Would save me a lot of bother in my project to get in that head of yours.” She gently tipped him off her and sat up slightly in the bed. “Well, no doubt at some point yer gonner hear about it from Catherine but that can’t be helped now. Who’s lady’s maid, then? Hattie?”
“Lottie.” Sam pulled himself up to sit beside her in the bed.
“Lottie?” Marcia gasped, redoubling her brow’s commitment to exercise. “How’s that?”
“Well, apparently you and Hattie are disqualified, on account of having dedicated gentleman friends, which her ladyship doesn’t prefer, and I vetoed Cath, didn’t I? So Lottie’s all that’s left.”
“Good lord.” Marcia looked pensive. “I hesitate to think what that’s going to do to poor Lottie. Does she know yet?”
“Not sure. Don’t think so. But I imagine she’ll find out tomorrow morning, if not.”
“Hmm. You know...” Marcia’s arms returned to their place around Sam’s chest and neck as she spoke. “Maybe it’s just what she needs. I mean, a big change in a new job’s done wonders for you, hasn’t it?”
“The Missus said something very similar.” Sam nodded, reaching his arm around Marcia’s shoulder to return the cuddle.
“Ah. Poor Lottie! But yeah, hang on, the Missus. We got distracted; what’s her stake in you and me? Why does she care? Did she say? And why does it worry you anyway?”
“She said she wanted me to be an example.” Sam grumbled. “That there were ‘wheels in motion’ now, bigger than you or me, and we’d be useful to have around just in case.”
“Huh. Doesn’t really tell you anything, does it?”
“Yeah, not really. Like, an example for what? Obviously it puts the fear in me that we can’t measure up, but what even are her expectations, anyway? Nobody knows about what she’s done to me and I don’t suppose she’d want it getting out. At least I hope she wouldn’t. Have to admit I’m already worried that that Gideon fella might figure it out one of these d—” Sam stopped mid sentence and stared into the middle distance.
“Sam?” Marcia waved her hand in front of his face in concern. “Are you all right?”
“Gideon.” Sam breathed. “That’s it. Capitulate to Gideon or...”
“What’s wrong?” Marcia’s voice was sounding more concerned.
“An example, she called me. A prototype. A proof of concept. Why would they...” Sam turned suddenly and grabbed Marcia by the shoulders, ignoring her squeak of alarm.
“You’re right, Marce.” He whispered hoarsely. “Why would she care about that? It doesn’t make sense. There’s only one reason... Oh no... Oh heavens no. The telegram...”
“Sam? You’re frightening me.” Marcia shivered. “What it is it? What’s the reason?”
“I’ve been so stupid.” Sam could see the reflection of his own drawn and haunted expression in Marcia’s eyes as he spoke. “I’ve been so incredibly stupid. It was all there in front of me. I know what it means, what Cath heard last week. It means... Oh good lord, Marcia. They’re going to do it again.”
“They are?”
“Yes. And I’m pretty sure I know who to. But if I really was like this before... That means it doesn’t work! Which means...” Sam hauled himself off the bed and stood stock still in the middle of the room. His world was spinning and he felt sick, his stomach filling up to the brim with the revelation that had just befallen him.
“It means what?” Marcia asked, daring not to do more than whisper.
“We have to do something, Marce.” Sam grabbed at the hair on his scalp, attempting to steady himself. “I don’t know how but we have to do something. We have to warn her!”
“Warn me about what?” Imelda asked, bemused.
“Merely.” Said the older man in front of her. “That your father’s instructions, upon which he has paid for rather a long series of telegrams in order to insist, are in my estimation rather peculiar. The solemnness with which he outlines the vitality of their being carried out as written is, however, unmistakeable.”
“How strange.” Imelda sipped her tea thoughtfully. “Please don’t think me impertinent, Mr Graves, but I must admit I was rather surprised to be met by somebody not in my father’s service. He is not, as far as I know, wanting for dogsbodies in Singapore. There’s a shipping company here that I believe he has a considerable stake in, and of course—” she gestured outside the tea room at the various English navymen patrolling the docklands. “His position in the war office would surely stretch to an imposition or two. And yet you say you are not and never have been in his employ.”
“Not in his employ, no. Not exactly, at any rate.” Mr Graves said simply. “Rather I have been, as I have seen it, in his debt.”
Mr Graves was not an old man, Imelda observed. He had to be at least ten and probably even fifteen years older than her, yet that would still make him Father’s junior by a comfortable decade. He was well-dressed, and capably for Singapore (this was not— as she could see from the tea room window— a guarantee with Englishmen abroad); though not particularly interesting looking besides that, with a receding and greying hairline he hid with a bowler hat. Imelda wasn’t sure her powers of deduction would reach to placing what he did here. If indeed he did anything here. One thing that kept bothering her, though, was that she couldn’t shake the feeling that the way the man spoke and the way he dressed did not quite match one another, as if one or the other— or perhaps even both— were an affectation.
“Well then, I am glad to hear of your opportunity to repay it.” She smiled sweetly. “Certainly being in debt to my father is a horrendous state I try to keep out of personally. But still, you must admit, it is peculiar.”
“Most peculiar.” Mr Graves agreed. “And made less peculiar only by its natural explanation coming in the form of a business more peculiar still, I am afraid.”
“Is that so?” Imelda sipped her tea again.
“Yes. I have here your father’s instructions for your return journey. They have been... condensed a little for your edification, largely to remove the various severe exhortations to me that they be carried out to the letter.” He cleared his throat and peered at the small slip of paper in his hand.
“You are to return to England with the greatest of haste, and once you arrive there are to travel to Ashwater House with minimal delay, except that necessary to ensure that you arrive after dark. You will travel under an alias and must make the absolute greatest of effort to ensure that your face is not seen and especially not photographed at any point in the journey. Having established your alias you must adhere to it at all times and must never sign or give your name as Imelda Ashwater.” He began.
“What?” Imelda was alarmed. “What on earth is Father playing—”
“If you will excuse me, Miss Ashwater.” Mr Graves rebuffed. “I was not yet finished.”
“Of course, well...” Imelda massaged her temples exasperatedly. “Please continue, Mr Graves, I apologise.”
“He goes on to say that if you have developed a courtship of any seriousness in person with any young man of the antipodes, or indeed by post with any young man in England, you are to send a message by letter from Singapore immediately to inform him—”
“Here we go.” Imelda muttered.
“— that whatever match you might have made is to be severed immediately and that you do not ever wish to see him again.” Mr Graves finished.
A few patrons of the tea room looked around in surprise at the sound of Imelda’s cup clattering against her saucer.
“What?” She spluttered. “I am sorry Mr Graves, but I simply refuse to believe that that is what Father’s message said.”
“Certainly the nomenclature of the telegram can be... Oblique.” Mr Graves mused. “Especially in the case of having had to transmit this much information without bankrupting oneself. Even still, I gather that the telegraph operator was not best pleased. But... no, I am afraid I am certain that that is the message to be conveyed.”
“Mr Graves.” Imelda said, a little hotly. “The subject of my finding a suitable man and being wed has been, at least in terms of those subjects that pertain to me at all, the singular obsession of both of my parents since I was eleven years old. I cannot accept, many failures to produce a gentleman friend of whom he approves as there may have been, that my Father would demand that I dismiss any current prospects in the matter. It is a ridiculous notion.”
Mr Graves didn’t speak for a moment, deigning instead to pick up and examine the small jam spoon that had been provided with his tea.
“I wonder, Madam, if you would be terribly opposed to my offering... What you might term a professional insight, at this juncture, given that it necessarily must stray a little into the realm of idle speculation.” he said, without making eye contact.
“By all means, Mr Graves.”
“These strange requirements and the immediacy of your return that your father has insisted upon... they suggest to me a cause for grave concern on his part as to your personal safety. If this is a recent development, I would only conclude that some actor or actors unknown, able somehow to reach you in Australia, have determined your identity in connection with him and wish you harm in order to strike against him.”
“Gosh.” Imelda breathed. “It casts his message about a ‘succession crisis’ in a different aspect when you put it like that.”
“Quite. Now, given my forewarning of your Father’s requirements, I took the liberty of arranging a suitable alias and disguise for you. You are to be my recently bereaved sister-in-law Mrs Calliope Graves, returning to England with me after the unfortunate death of my younger brother Hector.”
Imelda smirked as she heard the slight smile in her companion’s voice. “I suspect from the bemusement in your tone, Mr Graves, that you are in truth an only child.”
“In fact you would be wrong.” Mr Graves replied. “Yet your root supposition is accurate- sisters only, in my case. Still, nobody need know anything about that. It isn’t as if the stewards will demand a full background check, and after we reach Southampton there will soon enough be no more trace of either of us under the name ‘Graves’”.
“Of course.” Imelda nodded. “Wait, I beg your par—”
“A bereavement.” Mr Graves interrupted. “Was the ideal cover to select under the circumstances. I wasn’t sure of your measurements and your father did not provide them. That and the necessity to hide your face made a broad mourning gown and veil seem most appropriate as an outfit to match a story to.”
“I suppose.” Imelda said, a little unhappily. “I’m sure you did your best, and it seems that will satisfy my Father’s demands, at any rate. I just wish I knew what all this was about.”
“I think your only hope of that, Miss Ashwater” Mr Graves said sympathetically. “Is to head home without delay as he stipulates, and then to ask him yourself.”
Imelda nodded. “Very well, Mr Graves. I will do as you ask then. Thank you so terribly much for accompanying me on this treacherous journey after my poor husband’s tragic death.” She affected a stage sniffle.
Mr Graves gave the most imperceptible nod. “Very good. The ship leaves at first light tomorrow. I have secured us some accomodation until then.”
He picked up and opened his newspaper, leaving Imelda alone with her thoughts, which still consisted of more questions than answers.
The sound of the ship’s horn vibrated in Imelda’s stomach a little as it pulled out of port. She was fortunate, she thought, to be spared a tendency to seasickness; suffering which would surely have made journeys of this length utterly intolerable. Unfortunately the mourning veil over her face was proving about as severe a hazard to her health.
Imelda was quickly learning that veils were not an article of clothing she particularly cared for. They were irritating to the skin, and obstructed her vision in a way that was not truly limiting or blinding, but just sufficient an obstacle that she found herself tripping and stumbling on occasion. Unfortunately the broad black mourning gown she was bedecked in tending to hide any indignities of her feet, so she couldn’t even convince Mr Graves that these clumsy occurrences spoiled the effect of her grieving widow disguise and necessitated its replacement. Miserably, she gazed out of the cabin’s porthole, her eyes a little unfocused. All she was rewarded with, however, was the sight of the majestic, flat sea.
It was all so dreadfully dull. At least ambulance work, for all the waiting around it involved, kept you on your toes. Here there was nothing to do, and nothing to think about except the ridiculous business that got her into the whole mess in the first place. She couldn’t imagine what would possess her parents to insist she break up with any young men she was courting. Not that she had any boyfriends, or indeed had ever had any real ones past her parents’ disastrous first attempt to matchmake (she had actually found the Baron of Auchmacoy’s son a tolerable sort with a nice accent who seemed sufficiently dim that he might have been trusted to be satisfied with a single child and get out of the way of her sapphic dalliances, but Father had quickly discovered his own strong feelings about tartans on the furnishings). But still, the mootness of the point aside it was a troubling change in behaviour from the norm. She almost felt she had no choice but to believe Mr Graves’ tale of clandestine assassins set on leveraging her against her family, ridiculous as it seemed to consider. And thinking of which...
“Mr Graves?” Imelda asked.
“Yes?” Mr Graves turned a little from his position near the door and removed his cigarette from his mouth to look in askance at her.
“I am sorry to trouble you, but I do find myself so terribly bored. There is little in this cabin to amuse me, and less still that I can do outside it without risking revealing the disguise you have so generously provided. I was wondering... Might you tell me the story of how you came to owe a debt to my father?”
Mr Graves furrowed his brow in slight irritation, but nevertheless sat down opposite her. “Very well, if it will please you.”
“I am not sure if it will, but it will entertain me, and without being entertained I daresay I shall be displeased in short order.”
“The journey will be long, Miss Ashwater, and I do not have many stories like this one. I fear you may come to regret availing of what little entertainment I can provide on the very day we depart.” Mr Graves said grimly. “But... If you insist, then I will tell it. Keep in mind, however, that what I will tell is all I will tell, and I shall not tolerate questions or interruptions.
“This was some fifteen or so years ago. I had received my honours from Cambridge and shortly after that graduated from Sandhurst, and was stationed as young army officer in Amritsar.”
Imelda nodded. “You were in India at the same time Father was.”
“Indeed. And it is fortunate that it was so. Foolish and self-important youth as I was, I came a cropper one night at the hands of my own men. I don’t imagine they intended to kill me, but they were a bad lot, and my having inherited the company from a departing officer they were less than fresh. They had had quite enough of army discipline and Indian heat, and it being beyond their power to remove the latter they decided on the former instead. Having nothing to their names, they took with them a case of... sensitive information that I had been entrusted with, hoping to find a suitable buyer amongst the local brigands, or even the Russians.” Mr Graves’ stare grew a thousand yards long and the smoke from his cigarette wisped with what seemed an anxiety. “Your father was my superior in Amritsar, and by rights he should have reported the matter and had me dismissed with dishonour, or even court martialed. But he did not. Instead, he covered it all up to command, and took me with him to a local village, where we discovered my assailants hiding. The locals turned them over without argument, as their plot and their incompetence at actually carrying it out had apparently been causing a great deal of irritation. The information was retrieved, I never made a mistake of the sort again, and nobody heard any more about the matter.”
Imelda blinked. “What happened to the mutineers?”
“If you remember, Miss Ashwater, I said that I would not answer questions.” Mr Graves said sternly. “In any event, after that your father and I became very... close, for a time. He was a sort of mentor to me in that most nascent and important part of my career. There was an understanding most intimate between us, although unfortunately I think we have both only since departing each other’s company realised what that truly should have meant.”
Imelda was about to ask what it truly should have meant, but the sight of Mr Graves’ stern expression again as she opened her mouth cowed her to silence. In any case, she had an odd feeling she might already know, incredible as it was to conceive of.
“It might seem a small matter.” Mr Graves continued. “Bending the rules to save the skin of a promising but foolish junior officer. But I was always most grateful to your father back then, and I have only become more so in the intervening years. The fortuitous change in my career’s trajectory that led to my leaving the army and the past decade of my working life would have been speared dead on sight by word of my first, greatest and only indiscretion regarding sensitive information reaching the wrong ears.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr Graves.” Imelda ventured. “That all being so it still seems a great imposition for my father to have impressed upon you to chaperone me all the way to England.”
“Not at all.” Her companion replied. “I was in fact scheduled to make the journey myself in any case. The organisation that I work for and a number of others like it are being consolidated together for more efficient operation at a new office in London. The world is changing fast in this new century, as you know; and we must change with it. I am travelling to London to assume my new position and to be involved in the discussions of how our business will all now work.”
“And what is your business?” Imelda pressed.
Mr Graves’ expression darkened and the end of his cigarette melted away in a glow dramatically as he took a great draw.
“I work for a bank, Miss Ashwater.” He said. “Not one you’ll have heard of, we don’t take custom from the general public. Money and in particular investment are a great part of those wheels of the world now in frighteningly fast motion, and last century’s arrangement simply will not do if we are to stay on top of... international matters.” He stood up. “Given it would best for you to stay here out of sight, I think it is a little ungentlemanly of me to fill your living quarters with quite this much smoke. I am going outside, but I will be nearby if you need me.”
Imelda took this sudden excuse the way it was probably intended: The conversation was clearly over. She nodded as Mr Graves took his leave, then returned to looking out of the window wistfully and turning over the whole queer business that had befallen her in her mind.
“I wonder.” She announced to the empty cabin through gritted teeth due to the pressure of her jaw resting on her upturned hand. “If this ‘succession crisis’ business has come about because my father has gone completely mad. I suppose that would explain everything, wouldn’t it?”
Neither the walls of the cabin nor the sea beyond the porthole were forthcoming with an answer.