In Which Sir Crispin Critiques Tennyson
Cris had another restless sleep due to torturous cuddles from Sparkles. They still had no fire in their room, as the chimney had yet to be cleaned, so it was quite frigid. He couldn’t very well deny her his warmth, now, could he? He arranged himself innocently in bed well before her. She climbed in with a great deal more alacrity than previously, and curled up against him without flinching at all.
He adored it, of course. Therein lay the problem.
Apparently, she was already accustomed to him in her bed. A truly dangerous situation because accustomed would lead to expectation and that edged into need, a potent aphrodisiac indeed. Cris knew himself well enough to understand how much he enjoyed being needed. Even if it was only for warmth.
He thought she might be sniffing him, for as she nuzzled up against his shoulder, puffs of breath ghosted over his skin.
“I think things are coming along very well, don’t you?” she whispered. His skin pricked under the sensation of her words.
“Clean curtains might have been enough. You seem intent on miracles.”
“Pish-tosh, this place needs brightening and organization if we’re to lure the queen above ground. The supernatural is all very well and good, but it mustn’t be allowed to get untidy. What we have here is a veritable horror.”
“Why do you think they call it going to Goth?”
“Well, I intend to put a stop to it.”
“Might not work – we still don’t know what drove away the queen.”
“Give me time.”
“I don’t want you going to confront her alone, Sparkles. Too dangerous.”
“I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”
“I’m your safety, remember? Allow me some use beyond fetching and carrying beeswax.”
“If you insist.” She inhaled him again, a little more obviously this time. Dimity never did anything obviously without intent, so he took that as permission to relax into his own inclinations.
He allowed himself the luxury of bending his head to bury his nose in the crown of her sweet-smelling hair. He hadn’t helped brush it tonight and she had it plaited back for sleep. A great loss. “Why, for goodness sake, must you smell like lemon and honey? And is that milk as well?”
“Mmm.” She was falling asleep, comforted by his annoyance. It was familiar ground.
“It’s ridiculous that you look the way you do and also smell heavenly.”
“I wash my hair in a lemon rinse twice a week, when I can get the fruit. And then bicarbonate of soda, to keep it soft afterwards. I’m terribly vain, you see. The lemon keeps my color bright. I could go out in the sun, of course, but that would ruin my complexion. Which is why I use milk and honey on my face most nights.” Her voice was muffled in his nightshirt. She yawned and her jaw creaked. “I wash it off with cold water after. You should try it sometime. Leaves the skin nice and soft. Not that you—” She yawned again. “—should necessarily muck about with your face at all. It’s lovely the way it is.”
And she drifted off.
He lay, still as he could, once again trying desperately not to scare her off with the depths of his wanting. Although, since she had openly admitted to thinking his face lovely, perhaps the wanting was mutual?
He found himself wondering how her milk-scented skin would look against the roughened darkness of his. He lifted his hand, the one that she wasn’t leaning against, and covered her small one where it rested on his chest. He entwined their fingers, lightly.
So far as the cleaning and redecorating was concerned, Dimity was having a wonderful time. The hive house was beginning to smell less musty. Sir Crispin, while eager to assist with cleaning and curtains, was proving difficult as a prospective husband. Dimity had decided to seduce him, but she had less than a fortnight in which to do it. It seemed to her quite easy to fix an entire hive, spruce it up, make it happy again, in the space of two weeks, but seducing Sir Crispin? That looked likely to be the work of months. He was awfully resistant to her charms. Last night she’d draped herself over him, and nuzzled.
Nothing.
Nuzzled, mind you. What was a girl to do when a light nuzzling didn’t encourage at least a kiss on the cheek? He’d nuzzled back, but only the top of her head. It wasn’t like that was a significant location. At least, her seduction lessons hadn’t said so. She wished suddenly for her dear friend Sophronia, who had herself a lover of many years, and could explain the significance of a reciprocal nuzzle. Unfortunately, Sophronia was most likely off killing a tyrannical mastermind, or overthrowing a secret society, or stopping a pudding war, or some other such nonsense of deep political importance.
No one would ever accuse Dimity of being ambitious. In fact, her stated goal in life had never been espionage, even though both her parents were evil geniuses. She came by her skills naturally and honed them with training, so she ended up in a devious career despite herself. But she had always wanted to do something she really loved, one day. And that one day had come, and that something was Sir Crispin.
He was proving impossibly stoic, always had done. She suspected that was why she’d come to adore him. But her usual tactics of flirtation were not effective on a man who worked alongside professional flirts, and thus saw wiles applied on the regular. He was disposed to find her disingenuous. Which was not unfair. It was only that Dimity had been at the game so long, she wasn’t sure she remembered how to actually be genuine.
With her friends, perhaps. Sophronia and Sidheag when they had an opportunity to gather, or Agatha when she was in town. With them she could be herself. With them she even confessed to her secret desires – a house in the country, a husband, children. They thought her frivolous, but at least they did not mock. But seeing her true friends was rare enough an occurrence that Dimity wondered if she was losing track of herself. If she’d become, over the years, nothing more than the Honey Bee – effective, shining, and shallow.
It was a pickle. For if her wiles did work on Sir Crispin, she would not trust him so much. For he then would have been taken in by the Honey Bee, not Dimity. And she would never know if he really liked her. But her wiles were all she knew of relating to a man. How was she to seduce him without them?
So now, they had this awkward dance, where she carefully let down her guard and did not flirt at all. And he’d brushed her hair as if he treasured the task, and curved his arm about her after he thought she’d fallen asleep. She found herself thinking when she awoke still cuddled against him, his fingers tentatively laced with hers, and the afternoon sun making pink of her eyelids, that this was the good bit. That this might be all she really wanted. Just him, and a sun she rarely saw, and something warm coiling between them.
But he was so careful to get out of bed without waking her, as if afraid of what she might do and how he might react. As if afraid of her. Which hurt a bit. So she kept her eyes shut until she heard him leave the room to head out to the local bakery and fetch them a meal.
Dimity dressed in moss green, a favorite older dress suited to an artist, with a fern pattern and a charming little matched belt. Since it had a relatively high collar and a complex pattern, she went with bold drop earrings, massive square emeralds. Paste, of course – all of Dimity’s jewelry was paste. Real wasn’t the point as far as she was concerned. With the Honey Bee in action, real was never the point. Sometimes, in fact, the point was the point – her jewelry could get very sharp.
As she descended the stairs in the early afternoon she knew she made a picture, a fresh brightness in the rundown gloom of Budgy Hall. She found Sir Crispin dealing with a crowd of tradesfolk at the hive house door. The mess of activity in the entranceway paused to watch her graceful arrival.
Sir Crispin said proudly, “My wife, Mrs Carefull. She’s really in charge, of course. How are you today, my lovely general?”
“Topping, darling husband. Good afternoon, everyone, have you all learned your duties?”
A chorus of agreement and nods met her question. There were chimney sweeps, and paper strippers, white washers, laundresses, and seamstresses in abundance.
Dimity gave them her very best smile. Most of the gentlemen and one of the ladies sighed in admiration. She memorized their faces, of course.
“I shall be in the sitting room, painting, if you need to consult me on anything. Please do not hesitate to interrupt. Like most artists, I dearly love an interruption. As my husband has no doubt told you, the other residents of the house are of the fashionable set. They keep London hours, and are not to be disturbed. When they do deign to come downstairs, please don’t take anything they say to heart. Just come find me if something wants sorting.” She was not worried that they might realize the residents were vampires – after all, anyone who was anyone kept London hours. It wouldn’t do to be out before sunset – one might get tan.
Tradespeople, of course, understood the eccentricities of the upper classes. More nods met her remarks.
Dimity smiled at them, pleased. “Very well, then, to work with us all.”
She turned to find the three parlormaids waiting patiently in the drawing room. She wondered how long they had been there and immediately put them on an afternoon rotation forthwith – instructing them to arrive midday and stay until just after supper. Unlike the tradesfolk, who were temporary, staff needed to become slowly accustomed to the members of the hive. Smart staff under regular exposure would eventually realize that they were surrounded by vampires, but hopefully by then a certain amount of loyalty and tolerance would have built up. They might even become interested in increasing their income with drone status. The three girls seemed bright, eager, and sensible – excellent candidates, in Dimity’s limited experience.
She set them to cleaning and preparing the kitchen and back rooms, in the hopes that more staff might be forthcoming. Then she arranged her easel in the sitting room so that it was visible from the hallway, and began to paint.
Cris ran several more errands for Dimity in his guise as longsuffering husband, retrieved an extensive spread to feed the masses come suppertime, and returned home a good hour before sunset. He found the house humming with useful activity and Dimity in full artist persona artistically flourishing a brush at what appeared to be a bilious interpretation of a frolicking cow. He hid a broad grin – her artistic skills were indeed rather poor – and asked the parlormaids to arrange the food in the dining room.
Then, screwing his courage to the sticking point, he went up to their room and donned his dancing attire. This took every ounce of willpower he had. The outfit had been provided to him, with great amusement, by Bertie. The impossible fellow seemed to feel that a man who did ballet must perforce wear a combination of bathing costume and strong man circus attire. It was blue and white striped and indecently tight.
But he and Sparkles must make an artistic impression on the vampires, and if that required stripes, Sir Crispin would do his duty to his country and wear stripes.
He returned downstairs, wearing a dressing robe over said stripes, to find that Sparkles had left the cow to dry, and was dabbing at a smaller sheet featuring an insipid landscape, perhaps Devonshire, with a huge portly floating insect of some kind in the gray sky.
“Is that a caterpillar?” Cris inquired, curious.
Dimity tilted her head. “No, a dirigible. Or it will be in a bit.”
“Looks like a caterpillar.”
Dimity smiled at him. “I know. I’m really very bad.”
“I like your frolicking cow.”
“Dog! Please.”
“Oh, is it?”
“Clearly that is a hound on the hunt. It’s my commentary on the false joy of the class system, which is, in fact, nested in repression of the working folk and compounded by the everyman search for meaning in this cold, desolate world.”
“Oh,” said Crispin.
“I shall title it, of course, The Frolicking Cow. What are you wearing, husband?”
“My robe, of course. I’m going to practice.”
She twinkled at him. “Of course you are. I shall return to my floating caterpillar, shall I?”
“By all means. It’s nearly sunset. We must put on a good show.”
“Frolicking cows notwithstanding.”
He left her to it. First, he opened up the huge double doors between the sitting room, where she sat painting, and the drawing room, which was a larger space, less cluttered now the maids had finished with it. Then, he pushed back the furniture, but this did not give him nearly enough space. Fortunately, the reupholsterer arrived and took most of the chairs and couches away. That helped considerably.
The rugs were removed by some dustmen. Dimity said she’d simply gone ahead and ordered all new ones from London, which left Cris with a nice wide bare floor. It was dusty, even after the parlormaids swept it, and warped by age and ill maintenance. Also, it boasted rather too many dark stains for his liking, because they made him think of vampires and blood, but it was good enough to be going on with.
He threw off his robe to giggles from one of the maids and a tiny gasp from Dimity. He glared at the maid, who scuttled away quickly, making him feel like a shabby gentleman. When he turned to Dimity she was back at her painting, a little color in her cheeks. Probably embarrassed by his poor manners.
“I’m going to stretch now, wife,” he warned her.
“Are you indeed, husband?” she responded, oddly breathless. “Are you certain that outfit will accommodate such a trial? It’s rather tight.”
“Apparently it’s made for just such an endeavor.”
“Praise be to the heavens,” murmured Dimity.
Crispin took that as sarcasm. “I shall now be the frolicking cow.”
Dimity looked him over, hazel eyes eager and shy. “My dear husband, there is nothing at all bovine about you. Please do carry on.” He would have thought this a trained manoeuvre except she was also crimson faced. Clearly she wanted to stare at certain parts of his anatomy. His Sparkles was demonstrating equal parts embarrassment and arousal.
She licked her lips, unconsciously, he was certain. “Frolic away, darling, do.” Her voice had gone a little hoarse.
Cris concentrated hard on the absurdity of his striped costume in order to suppress his body’s natural response to her desire while simultaneously blessing the tan complexion that hid his own fierce blush. Then he turned away and focused on putting on a good showing.
Cris remembered some of his old stretches, and he combined those with the ones he used before fencing. He admitted to losing himself a bit in the moment, even without music, even knowing she was casting little glances his way. Thus, he didn’t really notice when the sun set and the gas came on.
When he surfaced from a series of deep lunges, most of the day laborers seemed to have departed, but a good many of the more dedicated tradesfolk remained. He was ashamed that he’d lost track of time so thoroughly.
Dimity rose and stretched herself, or as much as she might in stays and tight sleeves. She now had a small arrangement of paintings strewn about to dry and an artfully applied smudge of blue paint on her chin. She also seemed to have her blushes under control, although her gaze on him now was almost possessive.
“Shall I play for you?” She pointed to the Broadwood upright piano in the corner.
“You play?”
“Not very well and only about six things. And I’m sure that’s out of tune. But they’ll be awake soon and coming down. It’d be good for them to find us occupied in boldly artistic pursuits.”
“If you insist,” he said, feeling ever more embarrassed.
She sat and plonked out a small light piece of Austrian extraction, and he did a few experimental spins and a leap or two. He swept his hands about, remembering to curve his arms, and generally tried to behave like a complete idiot.
When the piece ended, sarcastic clapping met his final pose.
Cinjin Theris, the actor drone chappy, leaned against the doorjamb and glared at him. “You’re better than I thought you’d be. Why come up to Nottingham at all, when you could clearly take the stage in London?”
“Is that what you desire, Mr Theris – a London debut?” Dimity rose to intercept the drone.
Cris pretended to be very concerned about the line of his foot, and did a set of point and flex in all five positions while listening intently.
“Doesn’t every actor? Or dancer, for that matter.”
Dimity tittered at him. “My husband is talented, my dear sir, but sadly lacks ambition.”
“How very wearing that must be.”
She took his arm gently and led him from the room, chatting amiably. Cris began moving what little furniture was left back into some semblance of order. Doing a little twist here and a leg lift there, making a performance out of it.
“Oh!” said a breathy voice from the hallway. “Look at you! I do so adore muscular men.”
Cris paused to smile at the vampire. “Have you one of your own?”
Justice floated into the room. “My dear Gantry, the light of my life, has just such a form, so powerful. I can see now that you really are a dancer. I was one myself, did you know? Before I took the bite, of course. Ah, before...” He floated one arm up into the air. “Still graceful, although that’s my vampire nature now, not my once plentiful creative talent. And it is so hard to force myself to move slowly, languidly, when my nature is quick and deadly. I can dance, of course, but only the learned steps, nothing inspired or original. So sad. A great loss to the adoring public, I’m sure.”
Then he whirled and drifted away.
Cris stared at his retreating back with the sensation of exasperation he was beginning to associate with most vampires, and then he started and stared even harder.
Is that—? Is he wearing Dimity’s muslin nightgown?
Cris trotted after the vampire into the entranceway and watched as Justice opened the door and drifted out into the night. That was definitely Dimity’s peignoir billowing around him, swamping his small frame and trailing dramatically on the cobblestones of the street.
The vampire left the front door wide open behind him.
After a brief moment’s consideration, because he was still in what amounted to a swimming costume, Cris threw on his greatcoat, buttoned it closed, pulled on his boots, and dashed after the nightgown-clad vampire, out into the city.
Dimity would understand. Or at least, he hoped she would. Plus, she would no doubt want her nightgown back in one piece.
Dimity distracted Mr Theris with chatter for a while, then said she had to put away her paints and returned to discover that Sir Crispin had gone off somewhere, presumably following some important mission-related clue or other. Dimity hoped he’d managed to change his outfit or he would cut quite the spectacle, waltzing about in striped sportswear like a chump – nice legs notwithstanding. Not to mention his other manifold endowments.
She couldn’t give his endowments too much thought, however, because she encountered and then became busy arguing with Lord Finbar. The vampire seemed to take great personal offense to the fact that while he’d been asleep, she’d commenced a redecoration of his entire house. Silly fellow. It would be so much better.
“I left your private rooms alone, didn’t I?” Dimity smiled at him.
He glowered. “I asked you explicitly not to intrude upon my vast melancholy.”
“How is this an intrusion? A little light dusting. The wallpaper needed to go anyway. It’s only very minor things.”
“But my melancholy.”
“There were cobwebs, Lord Finbar. Cobwebs. Which, I’m bound to say, are not at all melancholic, rather, more unsanitary.” She paused, but he had nothing to say to that. “Good. Now, have you met the new parlormaid, Rosie? Rosie, this is the lord and master of this domicile, Lord Finbar.”
“Good evening, m’lord.”
Rosie had proved herself to be, on very short acquaintance, a hardworking and practical young lady who knew which side her bread was buttered on. She would, without question, take to the fang if pecuniary advancement and steak-and-kidney pie lay at the other end of those points. Some might consider it a bit too soon to open up about the hive, but Lord Finbar clearly needed some level of practical adoration and Rosie was rather eager to please. She’d make an excellent drone, even if she wasn’t in it for the immortality. The best drones often weren’t, or so Dimity had heard.
Thus Dimity felt perfectly solid in saying, “You’re a good girl, Rosie, and I think you’ll do very well with Lord Finbar here. He’s a vampire, you know?”
Rosie evaluated the oily hair and drooping velvet jacket with thoughtful brown eyes. “A real live vampire, ma’am? I’m honored.”
Lord Finbar mooched in a fallen angel kind of way.
“Best we keep that between us,” said Dimity.
Rosie nodded, eyes big. They softened at the sight of Lord Finbar. “I won’t say nothing to no one, promise.”
He glowered at her hopefully.
Dimity leaned forwards conspiratorially, implying that this next bit of information was even more exciting. “He is also a noted poet.”
“Oh, my stars! A real poet? Never thought to meet one of those in my lifetime.” She smiled at Lord Finbar, who looked a little pleased, but still droopy.
To Dimity, Rosie said, “Your vampire wants looking after, methinks.”
Dimity winked at the girl. “I knew I could rely on your discretion. You’re topping, Rosie dear. Now, Lord Finbar, don’t frown so. Rosie will be working in the study this evening, giving everything there a good clean. You know what she’d like more than anything, I believe?”
Lord Finbar glowered at her. “What would she like, then?”
“For you to read her some Byron. Have you ever heard of Byron, Rosie?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, there then, you see? You’re exactly the right age for Byron. He had me all aflutter at your age. And if Lord Finbar reads very well and you like him enough, perhaps a snack for the nice, sad vampire. But only if you really don’t mind.”
Dimity whirled on Lord Finbar and made her tone fierce. “Only if she really doesn’t mind, Lord Finbar.”
Lord Finbar looked both aghast and almost excited. “Of course! What do you take me for?”
Since it was patently obvious he was a vampire and would prefer it believed that he was not to be trusted with anyone as nice as Rosie, Dimity only shook her head at him. “Behave, Lord Finbar. Perhaps do not burden Rosie with your original works, not right away. They might be too tempting for such an innocent lass. Definitely start with Byron. Speaking of which, did you know my brother is one of the leading translators of Catullus? Have you ever read Catullus, Lord Finbar? I think you might enjoy him. And I’m sure Rosie would.”
But the vampire and the parlormaid had drifted away together, towards the study.
Dimity looked up to find Lord Kirby glowering at her from behind a curtain of silver hair. “What are you up to, Mrs Carefull?”
“Oh Lord Kirby, there you are! How delightful. I’ve precisely the thing for you to help me with.”
“Help? Help!”
Something caught her eye. “Oh, pardon me just one moment.”
Dimity trotted into the drawing room. “Mr Theris! You leave Miss Shortface alone! She has work to do. No, not Mr Headicar either! Really, Mr Theris, don’t you have acting to do? Go learn some lines and stop seducing the tradesfolk. Honestly. They’ve actual responsibilities. These walls aren’t going to repaper themselves.”
Mr Theris shoved his wandering hands back into his trouser pockets and left the room. Horrible man.
Dimity sniffed. She supposed she was going to have to get rid of him somehow. Except that would leave the hive with no drones at all. Something to think on. “Now, Lord Kirby, where were we? Oh yes, I wonder if I might ask your advice on a matter of grave importance?”
“My advice?” The portly vampire twiddled with the tassel at the end of one long sleeve nervously. He withdrew his face a little farther behind his long hair.
There was a knock at the front door, loud enough to be heard over the general bustle, but Dimity would not be distracted again. Besides, doors were Theris’s job, whether the drone liked it or not.
“Where is your husband, Mrs Carefull?” Lord Kirby asked, pointedly.
“Oh, he’s somewhere.”
One of the seamstresses answered the door. A young milkmaid type stood there, looking nervous.
Lord Kirby was shocked. “Oh! Finbar forgot. How could he? It’s her suppertime.” Lord Kirby cried out for all to hear. “Cinjin! She needs you, now!”
Mr Theris reemerged and gave a mocking bow to the milkmaid. “Of course. But if I could simply–”
“Now, Cinjin.” The vampire’s sleeve tassels quivered in agitation.
“Yes, sir.” The actor escorted the young woman towards the back of the house and, presumably, through the kitchen to the mysterious cave where the hive queen languished.
Dimity tried to follow.
Lord Kirby grabbed her by the arm, his movement so fast as to be imperceptible to the human eye. Fortunately, no one around them noticed. Too busy. “I think not, Mrs Carefull. What are you after?”
Dimity ignored him, calling, “Oh Mr Theris, just one moment, please?”
She shook free of the vampire, who let her go or she wouldn’t have been able, and rushed to the piano in the drawing room where she’d left one of her Parisian fashion papers. She’d needed it to explain the exact color she wanted for the new curtains, because the seamstress seemed to believe there was no difference between sage and light olive. Heaven forfend!
“Here you go, dear.” She handed it to the milkmaid.
“What’s this, ma’am?”
“Some light fashion-forward reading for the grand lady, when you’re in there. I think she might be interested.”
Lord Kirby tried to intervene. “Now, wait just a moment there, Mrs Carefull!”
It was Mr Theris who came to Dimity’s defense. “Really, Kirby, what can it hurt?”
Lord Kirby muttered something dark about ballgowns being at the root of all evil (which made Dimity wonder) but he let the two humans continue into the depths of the hive unmolested – the baroness’s meal now clutching a French fashion paper to her breast.
Dimity was pleased. “Now, Lord Kirby, about that advice I needed from you? This way, please. It’s this desk, you see, the lacquer. I’m not certain it’s quite salvageable...”
With some gentle encouragement, grumpy Lord Kirby was surprisingly eager to be of use in making decisions about furniture and upholstery and the like. As Dimity had surmised, he wished to be necessary and have purpose within the hive. His general anger at the world rested in Lord Finbar’s neglect of his duties as praetoriani. Lord Kirby thought he could do a better job. Dimity tended to agree, but praetoriani or not, she could capitalize upon his interest.
At first, he resented her distracting him with a lacquered escritoire, and accused her of trying to ingratiate herself. Apparently, he thought she was attempting to climb the social hierarchy of the hive when she was still new and only a candidate. Although he didn’t outright say any of that. But Dimity carved away at his defences throughout the course of the evening. By midnight he’d come around to her idea that making the hive house beautiful might encourage the queen to return to it, and the lack of staff (and drones) was a concern.
“Theris ran them off,” he confessed. “Said some of them were lazy and found others stealing and the like. Finbar didn’t care. Then before we knew it, Theris was the only one left.”
“You gave them marching orders, nothing more severe?” Dimity waited with bated breath.
“We are not monsters! Even with our baroness below ground.” The vampire clearly wanted to say queen, not baroness, but there were workers about. But they understood each other. Lord Kirby, at least, hadn’t killed anyone. Dimity doubted Justice or Finbar had either. None of them seemed interested enough, let alone motivated enough, to deal out death. Too much effort.
“I’m very glad to hear it. You must miss them all.” Her voice was mellow and sympathetic.
He looked suddenly far more sad than grumpy. “Yes, yes, I think I do. But I miss her most of all. Although, of course, I understand her distress.”
“What caused her to, you know, fade away?”
Lord Kirby bristled. “I would never speak about such shame as darkened this house. It is enough for me to know that it was not my fault! None of their leaving was my fault.”
Dimity believed him too. There was no artifice in Lord Kirby. If any of the former drones or staff had been killed, she suspected he would admit to it openly. If only because he still wasn’t sure about her and her husband, and would no doubt take any excuse to scare them off, or even simply scare them.
This supposition was supported when a large, fierce older woman appeared at the door and announced that she was the cook who’d left six months ago, and if that Theris chap could be made to hold his tongue and keep his hands away from the maids, she wanted her job back, thank you very much. Apparently, she’d heard Budgy Hall was hiring, and had come to see if things had been fixed to her liking.
“You know who you work for here?”
“I do, and I don’t mind pointy bits so long as it’s not me. Pay is good and the work hours suit me and my family, so long as I can take on my former contract.”
Dimity nodded eagerly. “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”
“You the new housekeeper?” The woman bustled in, already reaching into her sack and pulling out a pinafore.
“Only temporarily. I’m Mrs Carefull, painter. Candidate for, well, you know.”
“Ah yes, I see. Well, I do like what you’re doing with the place. You and yours have had supper already, I take it? How’s tea in an hour or so suit you?”
“Can you serve for all those currently working?”
“Certainly, if I can borrow one of the upstairs maids.”
“Please do, Mrs…?”
“Mrs Fwopwin. But Cook’ll do. My sister’s boy will come on for cook’s assistant and I’ve another nephew who might do for the boot boy, if you’re looking?”
Dimity gave the bossy woman an assessing look. “I’ll leave everything below stairs in your clearly capable hands, Cook, shall I?”
“You and I, Mrs Carefull, are going to get along fine.” Mrs Fwopwin gave her a wide, slightly mean smile and made her way towards the kitchen. “She’s still hiding out in the caves, is she?”
“Yes, she is.”
“You going to fix that too, Mrs Carefull?” But Cook didn’t seem to want an answer to that, for she closed the staff door firmly behind her. Dimity knew the type. She was retaking possession of her domain.
Accordingly, about an hour after midnight, Dimity broke her entire team for tea. Sir Crispin still had not returned and she was growing concerned. But tea took priority.
Theris reappeared from his duty to the hive queen without the milkmaid (which gave Dimity another missing person to worry about) and surveyed the spread with shock. There were warm fresh buns and jellied eel from the local bakery, but only a proper cook could have produced fresh apple fritters and custard. Simple, wholesome fare that would buck them up for the rest of the night’s work.
“Cook is back,” explained Dimity.
Mr Theris flushed. “But I...”
Dimity gave him her most innocent look. “You did what, Mr Theris? Cook seems very capable. I don’t know why she had to take such an extensive leave. Sick family member, I suppose. I’m sure we are all delighted to have her back. Don’t you miss freshly cooked meals? I’m sure Mr Carefull and I will be pleased to have her, and it takes the burden off you. Surely an actor such as yourself shouldn’t have to worry about providing and serving at table?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“See, I understand you feel a great responsibility. But you can relax now, let us take on some of the burden.”
“Now wait a moment, you haven’t even been officially accepted into the household. The baroness has to do that. You’re very high-handed, aren’t you, Mrs Carefull?”
“Am I, Mr Theris? You think me officious? I only want what’s best. And prettiest. Surely a man of your discerning tastes could not abide such a house as this one was prior to my arrival? I’m sure no one meant to let it get so bad.” She patted his arm, letting her hand linger. His expression mixed confusion and anger. “Oh look, here comes Lord Finbar. Do excuse me.”
He stopped her with an iron grip on her arm. “I am still the only one she trusts. The only one she’ll see. My place here is assured. I’m necessary. The only one left who is. You can’t get rid of me and you can’t replace me.”
“Really, Mr Theris! Have I got rid of anyone? No. I have, in fact, done nothing but bring people in. Give me some credit for good intentions.”
“Oh, you’re certainly good at something, Mrs Carefull. I simply haven’t figured out exactly what that is yet.”
“Painting,” replied Dimity, pertly. Then she twisted and dropped the weight in her shoulder, in a practiced move they’d drilled into her at Finishing School. It broke her free of his grip, although she’d have a bruise from it later.
“You should go retrieve the milkmaid, Mr Theris. Don’t you think she’s been below long enough?”
“Don’t presume to tell me my duties, Mrs Carefull!” he hissed. But he marched towards the kitchen to, presumably, do exactly that.
Lord Finbar had trailed in after the vivacious Rosie, looking stunned but eager. Dimity went over to them, mostly to check on Rosie. The parlormaid seemed pleased as punch, with no marks to her neck as yet. But from the solicitous way in which Lord Finbar saw her seated and her plate filled, it wouldn’t be too long.
Lord Kirby, in almost animated discussion with one of the carpenters on the subject of dovetail joints, looked positively chipper. Although neither one could partake of tea as yet, they both cautiously enjoyed the dining experience – in their way. They watched everyone around them eat with innocent glee, in the manner of children watching kittens lap at milk.
Dimity suggested to the vampires, in a mild tone, how nice it would be if they considered hosting some regular event or another for the neighborhood. Tea dueling, she had come to understand, was all the rage amongst young persons these days. Perhaps something along those lines? Or if that was too close to a village fete for comfort, simply opening up the house to regular visiting hours, so that the local gentry might pay calls upon them, should suffice.
Lord Kirby, of course, was against the idea instantly. For security reasons, if nothing else. But Dimity and Rosie, together, brought Lord Finbar round to the idea of perhaps a weekly artistic gathering or intellectual salon.
“You might give recitations?” suggested Dimity, with a tiny nod at Rosie, who instantly turned big pleading eyes on Lord Finbar. The girl was wasted on housework. Perhaps the War Office could use another agent?
Like the champ she was, Rosie picked up the gauntlet. “Oh dear me, yes, m’lord. You have a marvelous speaking voice. Do say you’ll consider it?”
Lord Finbar said he would, indeed, consider it. And would Rosie like to hear some of his original poetry while she worked in the drawing room after tea?
Rosie said she very much would.
Dimity tried to give her a warning look.
But the bally girl only winked at Dimity and left, her tea half finished, duster spinning in a hypnotic manner. Lord Finbar followed her like an enthusiastic, if dour, basset hound.
Dimity distracted Lord Kirby from his open-mouthed shock at this exchange by relaying her concerns about the replacement window frame not exactly matching the rosettes of the old one and could he please lend his expert eye to such a serious matter?
He said he would be delighted and went with the carpenter to do so.
With tea completed and everyone mostly sorted, Dimity seized upon the opportunity to sneak down beneath the kitchen after Mr Theris and the missing milkmaid. Dimity wanted to see if she might pursue her actual primary objective of locating the missing hive queen.
Justice Wignall was a loon. Crispin could only stare in amazement. A very beautiful, very dramatic, but decidedly loony sort of loon. Cris felt a wave of affection wash over him. He was fond of loons. But this was taking things rather far, literally and figuratively.
The ethereal vampire ran the cold cobbles of downtown Nottingham so fast Cris was grateful for the general standards of his fitness regimen. Not fast by vampire standards, of course, more like a leisurely stroll for one of them, but fast for a human. Justice clearly wished to emphasize wafting over efficiency. The vampire was barefoot, the soft slap of his feet on the wet stone echoing through the streets. Nottingham was a lace-making city, and lace required good lighting, so the place was – by industry and nature – mostly composed of daylight folk. Nights were relatively quiet for a large urban town, especially to a man like Cris, who’d always made his home in London amongst the Progressive Set. So while there were a few people about and evening enterprises and tradesmen working away, it was nowhere like the hustle and bustle of old London Town.
If Justice was aware of Sir Crispin shadowing him, he didn’t show it. Honestly, how could he not be aware? Crispin’s boots positively clopped. He might be fit, but he was no expert on running long distances in inappropriate garb. What worried Cris was the distance. Generally speaking, hive-bound vampires, especially young ones like Justice, had to remain within a few blocks of their queen at all times. As they got older they could go farther away, and the queen’s praetoriani, by necessity, had a large range of motion. The fact that Justice could even leave city limits was worrisome. The queen’s hold to his tether was clearly weakening. And a vampire’s tether only stretched so far until it snapped.
They eventually reached some kind of unkempt park, and within that, some species of coppice or diminutive wooded area.
No doubt this was the objective, for Justice slowed and began a dramatic stumbling run, arms flailing gracefully – artlessly lost and forlorn in the vast forest (of two dozen or so trees, mind you). The stolen white nightgown trailed behind the vampire, pulling along loose leaves and branches. The hem dampened. A sleeve caught and tore.
Cris worried about Dimity’s reaction.
Finally Justice cast himself dramatically down upon the roots of a massive oak tree. He arranged himself to look like some painting out of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Sir Crispin felt that Justice might be going for an interpretation of Tennyson’s appalling poem, Lady of Shalott.
Cris hid behind a scruffy shrub and waited to see what might happen next. Above him, through the branches and occasional cloud, the night sky twinkled. Cris took a brief moment to appreciate seeing the stars once more. It had been so long.
A gentleman came riding through the coppice and dismounted with the ease of one truly comfortable in the saddle. He was dressed for the hunt – red jacket, tight cream-colored jodhpurs, a high top hat, and a crop in his hand.
He clearly was not hunting foxes, however.
The man was on the stout side, of the kind that would go comfortably to chubby in his twilight years. His face was wide and ruddy, with a pronounced divot in the chin and an impressive set of whiskers.
“Justice, my own, my love... How beautiful and tragic you look.”
Justice leaned up on one arm and beckoned him over. “Oh Gantry, my dearest treasure, I am overwrought.”
This, then, must be the lover, Gantry Ogdon-Loppes. For surely Nottingham boasted only one Gantry.
The Gantry in question stumbled over a root, and eased himself down to one knee – no doubt a challenge in such tight trousers – to bend over the prostrate vampire.
“Come into my strong arms that I may cherish you.” He caught the vampire up and clasped him to his chest.
Justice flopped about in what was no doubt meant to be a faint of overwhelming emotion, but which looked remarkably dead-fish-like.
The moon cast a thin, reedy light through a break in the clouds above. This made Justice glow pale as the underbelly of said fish.
“I say, you are quite the finest of fillies!” Gantry was no doubt going off script with that statement, but his admiration sounded genuine.
Really, it was quite the performance. Cris wondered if they were taking advantage of his presence, or if they always acted this way with one another. In which case... measures would need to be taken.
Justice turned about and clutched Gantry’s ruddy checks in perfect lily-white hands. “Oh, but I have missed you so. The day spent sleeping alone seemed an eternity.”
“Then let me come to you! Beg your queen.”
Queen? That was interesting. It meant Justice was out to Gantry as a vampire.
“We never see her anymore, she has rejected the world. I am unmoored. I have only you, my darling, while we await her return,” Justice intoned.
Gantry pressed, “Then you must take me into your hive so that I may hold you and we may weather this storm together. I will be your succor.”
“But your parents!”
“Hang my parents! They’ll come around. If I could but tell them of your unnatural state. Become your drone and love in truth.”
“But my queen! She sees no one, ever. She has locked herself away from the world. How can I ask? She will not allow me into her presence.”
“How could anyone possibly deny you? My own, my dearest! Who would not want to gaze upon your beauty? You will make her see reason. We are meant to be together. I am meant to be beside you, always and forever, day or night.”
“Oh Gantry, you are too good for me. So handsome, so delicious.” Justice’s fangs gleamed.
Crispin honestly couldn’t take any more of it. He’d learned all he needed. Gantry was willing to turn drone. His parents had made some objection to the match, but they did not know drone was on offer. Justice was feeding on a willing lover. This was enough information to be going on with – he needn’t torture his ears any further.
He’d tell all to Dimity, for she would no doubt know the way to go about setting this to rights. And she ought to know what crimes of sentimentality had been committed while wearing her night-rail.
Dimity explored the kitchen, finding nothing of any import and no apparent exit. Where had Mr Theris gone to fetch the milkmaid?
She was near to giving up when she found what could only be a trap door in the middle of the scullery floor. One no doubt originally intended to lead into a root cellar.
Cook gave her an expressive look but was clearly one to mind her own business, which currently involved putting away the remnants of tea.
Dimity opened the door. Instead of a ladder, the door opened onto a set of narrow stairs cut into the limestone, which extended down so far into the darkness, it was impossible to see where they ended.
Dimity climbed down with alacrity, holding her skirts high, and feeling very daring. The stairs led to a perfectly respectable tunnel (once her eyes adjusted to the gloom). It was the kind used by breweries to store beer barrels, except longer. At the far end of it was a door. As she approached, making no noise with her soft slippers and trained to be silent, she heard arguing coming from behind it.
A strong, cultured female voice was saying, “After what was done to me, how can I show my face again?”
Mr Theris’s voice came then, tone soothing, murmuring calm words and platitudes.
“Never!” was the reply. “Now you must leave me, Cinjin. For everyone does, in the end.”
The door creaked open. Dimity caught a glimpse of a rail-thin woman with red hair and a black brocade tea gown before Mr Theris and the milkmaid, now pale and punctured, came through.
Dimity leaned against the cold limestone wall, feeling a little faint. The punctures appeared deeper and more bloody than last time. She pressed her clammy forehead to the stone, closed her eyes, and took a few deep breaths.
Mr Theris shut the door loudly behind him. Dimity opened her eyes. The actor was glaring at her.
“What are you doing down here, Mrs Carefull?”
“You mean this isn’t where the extra embroidery samples are kept? I felt sure you must have more, and I thought a display in the study...”
Mr Theris shook his head at her, exasperated. “You’re almost entirely composed of belters, aren’t you, Mrs Carefull? If that’s even your name. You may be as good an actor as I, but I know your kind. Now go on back. You know I can’t leave you down here without permission or supervision.” His eyes were cold. She was once more imposing on his domain.
“But if I could only ask the hive queen...”
“No, Mrs Carefull, upstairs with you. Haven’t you done enough damage already?” He turned and locked the door behind him with a large key. Certainly even a door as thickly bolted as that one could not confine a vampire queen, so the locking was for Dimity’s benefit. It was designed to keep others out, not trap the baroness. Dimity thought the lock looked very hard and solid and difficult to pick, but she might be able to steal that key.
She sighed and turned to lead the way back though the limestone tunnel and up the stone steps. She helped the milkmaid into the scullery and they both brushed off their skirts.
Mr Theris closed the trap door with a decided snap, and then retrieved a steak and kidney pie from the scullery, ignoring Cook’s glare. He had a decorated lace Valentine’s card in his free hand. He ushered the milkmaid before him to the entranceway, where he thanked her with the silver coin payment, the pie, and the card.
Once the milkmaid was away, Dimity turned back to Mr Theris, who was looking around at the now clean entranceway, bare of pictures, furniture, and rugs. Two spry young men were re-papering it in a delightful royal blue pattern depicting peacocks and silver eggs, which Dimity thought would set off the mahogany railing quite nicely.
Dimity sidled up to Mr Theris, eyes big as she could make them. Time to try a different tactic.
He looked skeptical and then leering, clearly ready to play her game. “Mrs Carefull, be cautious now. I’m easily susceptible to the fairer sex.”
“Are you, indeed, Mr Theris?” Dimity doubted her skills when up against this angry rake, but she also wanted answers.
“Cinjin, please.” He puffed out his chest and took a fencer’s stance.
“Cinjin.” She trailed a finger up his sleeve. “Not too susceptible? She upset you?”
“She refused my counsel. She always refuses. She thinks I’m a child who could not possibly understand her.”
“When clearly you are a man with only her best interests at heart. Why is she so reluctant to take solace in her hive? What was done to her?”
Mr Theris shook his head, covering her hand with his and making a good examination of the neckline of her dress. It was too high to see down, although she made a note to activate her décolletage should she need to distract this man in future.
Then he reached forward and began to twiddle with the top button of her bodice.
Right there in the hallway.
Really, it was too much. She was actually rather shocked.
Dimity tittered at him and turned away. “Really, Mr Theris, there are people about.”
“Then let us go upstairs.” His eyes narrowed. He was pushing her to see how far she would take things.
“But the queen – I’m dying to know. What was done to her?”
Mr Theris tried to turn her back to face him again. “Something fashion-related, I understand. Kirby knows.” He reached up to toy with her top button again and then ran two fingers down from one button to the next, bump bump bump, over her chest towards her belt.
“Why, Mr Theris, how rude you are. Stop that this minute!”
The hand continued.
Dimity considered her options. This was not a subtle man, which meant, unfortunately, that violence was likely best. With a small sigh, she extracted the muff pistol that always lived in the depths of her right skirt seam, in a hidden pocket there.
He didn’t notice. He was watching his own hand sweep down her front.
Dimity raised her gun, pointing it up his not insubstantial nose. “Look here, Mr Theris. I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if I must. You see, if I shoot you, there will be blood. It’s terribly embarrassing, but when I see blood, I have a propensity to faint. And you wouldn’t notice because you would be dead, but I would be most awfully inconvenienced. Not to mention this lovely new wallpaper would be spattered. So if you would kindly keep your hands to yourself... there’s a good chap.”
“Why, Mrs Carefull, you have a gun. Are lady painters supposed to carry guns?”
“Around you, Mr Theris, apparently all ladies should carry guns.”
“Did I misread you, Mrs Carefull?”
“I love my husband, Mr Theris.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
The front door opened then, without a knock, and Sir Crispin came in, bringing with him the sounds and scents of heavy rain. It must have started while they were in the limestone caves. “Really, I begin to think Nottingham is one big puddle.” He paused in the act of removing his greatcoat, noting the tête-à-tête before him with a raised eyebrow. “What’s all this, then?”
Mr Theris backed away from Dimity. She found it aggravating that he was more afraid of Sir Crispin than of her pistol. Dimity stashed the gun back in its secret pocket, while the drone was otherwise occupied in looking at her enraged husband.
Sir Crispin did look angry. In that quiet fierce way that meant real anger, not the simulated kind.
Oh dear.
“Were you touching my wife, sir?”