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A dry orange leaf skittered across her path as Caz Coppersdown stepped off the train and inhaled the unfamiliar scents of the countryside. A cloud of coal smoke wafted in her direction, cutting short her enjoyment of dried leaves and a hint of baked apple. She coughed and clutched her carpetbag to her chest as she stepped away from the steam train and onto the small wooden platform.
Haversdale wasn’t a busy stop, and only one other passenger departed the train after her, immediately striding off in the direction of the bakery from which that heavenly apple scent wafted. It was a quiet village, with just one row of quaint shops lining either side of the cobblestone street.
Caz wondered whether she would have time to pop into the bakery before her aunt arrived to pick her up. She almost never got to go out and try the many bakeries and eateries back in Soldark. But for once, she was on her own, even if her parents had sent her to the countryside while they went on their business trip.
The steam train hissed, its gears and motors moving into motion. As it pulled away from the small platform, it revealed a black auto parked on the other side of the tracks. She didn’t recognize the gentleman in black standing there, so she shrugged and tramped over toward the bakery. Probably waiting for the next train, she thought, but then she heard the man call, “Miss Caroline?”
She winced and turned toward him. “It’s Caz,” she said automatically.
He bobbed his head and touched the brim of his bowler cap. “Of course,” he said. “My apologies. The Dowager sent me to retrieve you; she’s up to her elbows in the garden at the moment.”
Caz raised her eyebrows as she pictured her famously wealthy great-aunt doing anything more than stroll through her gardens, but she headed toward the man and his auto just the same.
Recognizing the Daguerre house livery as she got closer, she let him secure her carpetbag, and give her a hand into the auto. She took great care getting into the pristine vehicle, even though her ankle boots were freshly polished and blackened, she still didn’t want to scuff up her aunt’s auto.
“There you are, Miss Caz,” he said after she was settled.
“Thank you,” she said. “And you are?”
He ducked his head, “Beg your pardon, ma’am. You can call me Grimlee. I’m the butler at Daguerre.” He looked much older than her father, and she wondered if Grimlee had been working at Daguerre when her father came to visit as a boy. Caz had rarely left her own house until a few years ago, let alone been allowed to leave Soldark to visit her aunt’s grand estate. She coughed into her gloved hand, a remnant of her childhood illness.
“Mind your skirts now.” Grimlee shut the door and briskly went around to the other side.
She folded her gloved hands in her lap, unaccustomed to the silk. The gown she wore was much finer than she was accustomed to, though she still wore no corset to allow for easier breathing. Her gaze flicked out the window at the unfamiliar houses. Between the unfamiliar scents, and the suddenly stifling neck-cloth she wore... She wondered if this was all a mistake, accepting her aunt’s invitation to her country home for the season. How was she to fit in? She ripped the kerchief from her neck and swiftly stuffed it in her deep dress pocket, taking calculated breaths.
But her parents had already sailed on the airship yesterday to the new copper mine in Angleshire for an inspection. And she had even less of a desire to spend the next month staring at rocks.
If only she could have remained in Soldark.
Writing her first big story.
But her parents didn’t know about her newswriting ambitions, and would never leave her in their grand estate unattended. She knew they were worried about her after a childhood spent in sickness, but that was years ago! And though she had to work to catch her breath sometimes, she could get along quite by herself.
Grimlee got in and started up the auto, jerking her back into the moment. She clutched the seat as he brought the auto down the bumpy cobblestone streets of Haversdale, glad her stomach was empty for such a tumultuous drive. The streets of Soldark were much smoother, though she often walked or took the train now that her parents allowed her to leave the estate on the rare occasion. At first, she had had a hard time convincing them to let her go out on her own, but the doctor had said a little exercise would be good for her lungs, and her parents couldn’t always accompany her. Her favorite outings were to the corner newsstand.
She eyed a pair of girls strolling down the sidewalk in extravagant dresses, their corsets cinched to perfection, coquettishly giggling behind fans as they watched a group of boys playing football on a nearby pitch. Caz rolled her eyes, though she wished she could get out and walk too. Just as she was wondering how much more bumping she could take, Grimlee turned the auto down a white gravel drive, which was measurably smoother.
As far as mansions went, Daguerre was a grand one.
Their home back in Soldark was quite large, she knew, but having grown up in the wood-paneled monstrosity, Coppersdown estate was comfortable, full of plush pillows on every chair, fresh candles twinkling from every sconce, tapestries from her parents’ travels muffling the sounds of the city outside, and always brimming with the scent of fresh tea and whatever baked goods Mrs. Pratt was cooking up that day.
Caz had visited some other estates in Soldark as her parents mingled with the Grandvilles, the Danburys, and the Stonytons, but to her all their mansions seemed cold; too big, too clean, and filled with meaningless artwork and decor.
Even from the distance down the drive, Daguerre’s elaborate columns and copper fox statues looked elegant yet inviting. Shrubs and trees by the entrance looked a little overgrown, not like the perfectly manicured and managed nature she was used to in the city.
As they pulled up to the front door of Daguerre, Caz didn’t know what to expect. She certainly didn’t expect to see her great aunt, dressed in a modest burgundy gown with black lace edging, stacking pumpkins on the doorstep with the help of a maid. There was dirt under her fingernails. Caz grinned and removed her satin gloves, stuffing them into her pocket before opening the door to the auto. Grimlee wordlessly brought her carpetbag around as Caz stepped forward. She took a deep breath of the country air, inhaling the unfamiliar yet alluring scents of nature.
Dowager Daguerre straightened, a calculating look in her eye as she smiled at her great-niece. “Go get the last four, will you, Marla, and then we can see if we need to buy extra from Shore. Caroline! Welcome to Daguerre.”
“It’s Caz,” she blurted, and heat immediately rushed to her cheeks as she reached up to cover her mouth. Had she really just corrected her? “I’m sorry, Dowager.”
Her great aunt raised a single eyebrow–a feat Caz envied–and said, “What for? I would never wish to call you by a name you dislike. And as far as names go, you may call me Elmira. We are flesh and blood, by-golly.”
“I–all right,” Caz said breathlessly, her cheeks still burning, though she was secretly pleased. Her aunt was nothing like the stuffy nobles in Soldark. Her opinion on the upcoming month shifted immediately to excitement.
“Grimlee, take her bag to her room, it’s already prepared. That’s all you brought?” she asked Caz.
“No, my trunk should be here this afternoon. At least, that’s what my father said.”
“Perfect,” Elmira said crisply. “Now, I need your opinion on these pumpkins.”
Caz grinned as her great aunt picked up some wicked-looking shears and sliced off a few inches of the long stem on one of the bright orange gourds littering the mansion’s doorstep.
Though she wasn’t sure she’d find much action worthy of a gripping story she could write for the Soldark Times, perhaps the season in the country wouldn’t be so boring after all.